<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Turning Turtle by Faileas, iarrannme</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069745">Turning Turtle</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faileas/pseuds/Faileas'>Faileas</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/iarrannme/pseuds/iarrannme'>iarrannme</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Captain America (Movies), Discworld - Terry Pratchett, En Attendant Godot | Waiting for Godot - Beckett, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Art, Avengers AU, Captain America's Shield, Crossover, Dragons, F/M, First Sight and Second Thoughts, Gen, Genderfluid, Genderfluid Loki (Marvel), Humor, Mjolnir - sort of, Puns &amp; Word Play, SHIELD, Tea, The Tesseract (Marvel), Time Loop, Time Shenanigans, cabbage and cabbage byproducts, cameo Hogwarts crossover, cameo Ocean's Eight crossover, cameo Waiting for Godot AU, dwarf bread</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:49:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>32,158</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24069745</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faileas/pseuds/Faileas, https://archiveofourown.org/users/iarrannme/pseuds/iarrannme</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em><strong>Elephants?</strong>  A flat world on their backs, with a tiny sun?  Heimdall’s balls, has the Tesseract developed a sense of humor?  What has it taken him to?</em>
  <br/>
  <em>... Where there are people, there are (usually) minds.  And even without his scepter, minds are Loki’s playground.  He smiles.  No inconvenient brother, no Avengers, no SHIELD.  He’ll rule here within a month.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>And if they resist him?  What can they do, but burn?</em>
</p><p>When Loki escaped with the Tesseract in Avengers: Endgame, where did he go?  Wherever he went, he surely found that lessons will be repeated until they are learned …</p><p>The Avengers, Discworld-style.  A crossover for Loki and the Tesseract, but otherwise an Avengers-AU Discworld tale.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Havelock Vetinari/Leonard of Quirm if you squint, Lobsang Ludd/Susan Sto Helit, Loki &amp; Igor (Discworld), Loki &amp; Lady Margolotta (Discworld), Loki &amp; Thor (Marvel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>83</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>52</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Love Me Some Crossovers</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prelude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097695">Certainties</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomadicwriter/pseuds/Nomad">Nomad (nomadicwriter)</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Primary inspiration is the first Avengers movie and 2012!Loki's escape in Avengers: Endgame, as well as any Pratchett character I can find room for.  The bit inspired by <em>Certainties</em> is in Chapters 13-14.  To anyone here for the Waiting for Godot content, of course I'm not going to tell you how far you have to read to get it. :P  (But it IS there, I promise posting to that fandom wasn't a horrible meta joke.)</p><p>It will surprise no one who’s read the Discworld version of a Roundworld tale that this version doesn’t precisely copy the original.  Enjoy!</p><p>Written by iarrannme with beta and inter-scene art by Faileas.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which a few members of our orchestra straggle in and begin tuning up; Loki spots his chance and is nonplussed; and we learn what kind of story this is.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="align-center">
<strong>Lullaby in G Minor</strong>
</p><p>
<em>One exit</em><br/>
<em>No breath</em><br/>
<em>Stand still</em><br/>
<em>Wait for death</em><br/>
</p><p>
<em>Two, three, four, five</em><br/>
<em>Maybe makes it out alive</em><br/>
</p><p>Translating the rhythmic crackles of her mother’s lullaby to Human had been difficult, but Tears of the Mushroom did not want Mistress Beedle or Lady Sybil to think she was ungrateful.</p><p>Lady Sybil did not understand, though she tried.  “You’ve scores of people wanting to commission music,” she pointed out, “and you’ll always have a place with us.  You’ve no need for another job.”</p><p>“One exit, no breath,” Tears of the Mushroom said again, firmly.  “I am choosing my cave.”  She smiled.  “You and Mistress Beedle and music are the grand front entrance.  But you won’t be the only exit.”</p><p>Lady Sybil looked as though she would like to say a great deal more, but she kept herself to a small sigh.  “We’ll keep your rooms for you,” she said instead.  “Come by often.”</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Mrs Cake’s basement was perfect: dark, moldy, full of mysterious boxes and unidentifiable detritus with abundant goblin-sized nooks and tunnels, and possessed of not one, not two, but three exits.  Sharing it with Henry was an unexpected benefit: nothing else was likely to intrude on a bogeyman’s lair, and Henry’s nyctophobia made him an eager audience for new music.  Tears of the Mushroom hummed in the dark to soothe him, then spent mornings polishing her new melodies in her light, airy, dry rooms at Scoone Avenue, or practicing with her quintet in the Ramkin-Vimes conservatory.</p><p>It was a minor commission for the Temple of Seven-Handed Sek (“something with a good rhythm for cleaning out the squid pond”) that led to her afternoon job.  She’d delivered the music to a grateful but exhausted minor priest who nodded off three times in their five-minute conversation.  “So sorry,” he finally apologized, “Up all night – Seven-Handed Sek’s rituals last hours – and we’re short-staffed today, our usual sub is already filling in at Blind Io’s –”  He yawned.</p><p>“What does a substitute priest need to do?”</p><p>“Believe.”</p><p>“I am a goblin who played a harp in the Ankh-Morpork Opera House.  I can believe in anything.”</p><p>The priest lowered his voice.  “I was a jobbing priest before I got this gig, so word to the wise: learn to <em>stop</em> believing, too.  They won’t pay you for extra once you’re off the clock.”</p><p>“I am a goblin.  I am adept at ceasing to believe.”  She kept her voice even, but the look of distant compassion the priest gave her suggested he’d been reading the papers.  The disinheriting and exile of Gravid Rust had drawn a great deal of attention.</p><p>Ten minutes after that, an equally rumpled, slightly more senior priest declared himself impressed with how quickly and far she could move the needle on his pocket credometer.  By the time the first priest was snoring, Tears of the Mushroom was an ardent, ordained devotee of Seven-Handed Sek, which she remained until moonrise and thereafter three afternoons a week, regular, alternating with shifts at the temples of Errata, Anoia, and Ikebana.  Between times, she kept her distance from gods, as they had always kept theirs from her.</p><p>Saturdays she devoted to exploring the city.  There were reassuringly many ways to disappear, although astonishingly – disconcertingly – pleasantly few times she needed to.  She was bemused to discover, at the end of each week, that she had indubitably made it out alive.</p><p>On Octedays, she rested.</p><p class="align-center">
<strong>Prélude à l'après-l'histoire d'une faune</strong>
</p><p>“Loki will be answering to Odin himself.”</p><p>Look at Thor, glittering in the sun, so sure of himself and their fath– and Odin’s favor.  The pathetic humans bluster around him – “Odin can have what’s left,” as though they’ll long be able to hold Loki or could cause him any real harm.  (His mind shies away from recent green- and pain-tinged memories.)  They’re arguing amongst themselves: where’s his opportunity?  He waits, relaxed in his restraints, and idly skims the area, looking for anything he can –</p><p>What’s this: one of the guards has a shimmer about him of distorted time, and he’s speaking behind his mask.  Something is afoot here, then – someone else looking for a moment of distraction.  Whatever their goal is, when they make their play, he’ll make his.  Are they here for the Tesseract?  For him?  For the Avengers?  Much damage can be done from an unexpected quarter.</p><p>Why hasn’t Thor noticed that guard?  Too distracted by the blustering humans or by his watch over Loki?  Thor’s gaze passes briefly over the guard without hesitation – can he truly not see it?  Interesting, <em>interesting</em>.  If Thor can’t see it, then perhaps he won’t be able to track – and just like that, his plan is in place.</p><p>And here’s half of his chance: Stark is falling to the ground.  Loki spares a moment of admiration for however that was arranged; it’s an effective distraction, and no one questions the time-distorted guard calling for help.  The case holding the Tesseract is suddenly driven across the floor towards the guard – is there another tiny time-shimmer near Stark?   The guard grabs the case and walks away: Loki’s window is closing.  If he just gets free he can easily handle even an unusual human – again he ruthlessly shoves certain facts aside, only to have them shoved immediately back as Big, Green and Painful roars something about stairs and knocks the guard down.</p><p>The case slides right to him.</p><p>Well, then.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Careening through unknown space: familiar, if not pleasant.  At least this and the disappearance of his restraints count as the “out of here, and free” he focused on as he grabbed the Tesseract.  Now that he’s got nothing but time, he can ponder more specific wishes.  The stars turn slowly about him and he wonders idly how fast he’s traveling.  No way to tell until he’s near something whose size he can guess, like that …</p><p>… giant …</p><p>… turtle?</p><p>What in the name of Od- what in all the frosty hells is that thing?  It’s rapidly getting bigger; he must be traveling towards it quickly.</p><p><em>Elephants?</em>  A flat world on their backs, with a tiny sun?  Heimdall’s balls, has the Tesseract developed a sense of humor?  What has it taken him to?</p><p>The turtle slowly swings its enormous head to look at him.  <em>That’s</em> not unnerving at all.  Suddenly, it rolls and snaps something silently in its mouth.  Loki’s close enough now to see rocky shards tumble away, bouncing harmlessly off its hide, and to suspect each shard is the size of a mountain.  It rights itself with ponderous grace and returns to staring at him.  Somehow, neither the elephants nor the flat world fall off, and the tiny sun is undisturbed.  How does that work?</p><p>The best mischief starts with curiosity.  Thor and even Odin can have no idea that this thing exists.  <em>Hide me from Heimdall</em>, he thinks fervently, and feels the Tesseract’s assent.  He doesn’t know yet what he’ll do with this or how, but he recognizes opportunity even if he can’t see its shape.  Without his scepter he can’t hope to influence that thing’s mind – even with it he’d be leery – so he’ll have to hope it doesn’t decide to snap him up, or bank away from him; he doesn’t fancy landing on an elephant and spending months climbing up to the surface.</p><p>He makes no further demands of the Tesseract for the moment.  He doesn’t trust it not to turn on him if he becomes inconvenient, and he’s under no illusions about which of them is more powerful.</p><p>The turtle eyes him, but lets him live.  Who knows what it understands of who he is or what he carries.  He’d better hope it’s ignorant rather than aware and unafraid.  He plummets past the tiny sun, eyes widening to see cities and roads laid out below him.  People, then.</p><p>Where there are people, there are (usually) minds.  And even without his scepter, minds are Loki’s playground.  He smiles.  No inconvenient brother, no Avengers, no SHIELD.  He’ll rule here within a month.</p><p>And if they resist him?  What can they do, but burn?</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Some stories are so shy they hardly even take form in a single mind, only ever glimpsed in dreams and moments of distraction.  Others are homebodies: they’ll make themselves comfortable in one mind, but they don’t care to get out much.  And some are willing to travel, with strict boundaries for a healthy work-life balance and contractual limits on overtime.</p><p>But some … <em>some</em> stories like to deck themselves in great flapping ribbons of spacetime, paint their nails with narrativium, glitter their faces, do their hair and go out on the town.  They’ll wear anything anyone offers them, a red-white-and-blue plaid shirt and ragged purple shorts one day and a gold suit and witch’s hat the next.  <em>These</em> stories aren’t shy about asking for what they need.  If they don’t have something they want, they’ll reach out and take it.  If they can’t find it, they’ll invent something out of thin air.</p><p>Beneath Ankh-Morpork, something awoke.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Lullaby in G Minor: This was intended purely as a joke, ‘cause, ya know, she’s a <strong>G</strong>oblin, so she’s small, right, ya know, har har?  Turns out there is a song called <a href="https://soundcloud.com/botanicrecords/sylfiden-lullaby-ft-vandetta">Lullaby in G Minor</a>.  It’s quite lovely, though I don’t imagine goblins have the right instruments to create its sound.</p><p>Prélude à l’après-l’histoire d’une faune: Jokes that cross 19th-century French music with the appearance of Loki’s canonical Discworld equivalent are WHERE IT IS AT, fight me!  :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Day 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Loki awakens in a new place; Miscellaneous Stew is given a gift; public art is improved upon; Lady Margolotta uncovers an interesting fact; and Loki wakes in a new place, again.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Being hit repeatedly with a floor by a Hulk was nothing compared to being hit with an entire world.  The pain, the indignity and the overwhelming smell of cabbage kept Loki from noticing for some time that he held nothing in his hands.</p><p>When it did occur to him, he leapt instantly to his feet, panicking, then panicked further as he overbalanced and fell face-first into yet more cabbage, whimpering as every bone and muscle screamed at him.</p><p>“Thir thouldn’t thtand up tho fatht when Thir’s handth and ankleth are thtuck together with cabbadthe adhethive,” said a reproachful voice behind him.</p><p>He’d swear a moment before no one had been in this – storage shed? – small dark cabbage-reeking place – with him.  He put on his best “offended prince of Asgard” voice.  It wasn’t hard.  These cabbages were bloody offensive.  “Release me and get me <em>out</em> of this pile of cabbage.”</p><p>“And beetth,” said the voice, still reproachful.  When he chose a menacing silence (as menacing as he could be face-down, immobilized and injured in a pile of cabbage), the voice continued, as though to make an important point clear.  “Cabbadtheth <em>and beetth</em>, Thir.  Thome turnipth ath well, I darethay, they thot up like nobody’th buthineth thith thummer, we’ve thtill got lotth.”</p><p>Hela help him, he was actually going to converse about turnips with his still-unseen – rescuer?  Jailer?  “Turnips grow <em>underground</em>, you idiot.”  How far he had fallen …  Never mind.  He wouldn’t stay here.</p><p>“Not <em>thethe</em> turnipth,” said the voice, darkly pleased.  “They thtart out there, thure enough, but the adventurouth oneth don’t thtay there long.  They like to netht here during thunlight hourth, though.”</p><p>Adventurous – no.  No.  No more.  “I thaid – I <em>said</em>, release me immediately.”</p><p>“I don’t think tho, Thir,” said the voice consideringly.  “Ladythip thould be rithing thoon, the’ll want to thee what made the hole in the thtoradthe thed thingles.  The won’t apprethiate thomeone trying to thteal our thupplieth.  There are thertain mannerth ekthpected for guethtth, but for thieveth?”</p><p>He drew breath to hiss furiously that he was not some common cabbage-thief, but the voice continued, “Thleepytime, Thir,” and a small vial smelling more overpoweringly of cabbage than he had known it was possible to smell was held to his nose.  His consciousness faded in sheer self-defense as the voice said thoughtfully, “Thith ith a little ekthperiment, I’ve ekthtrapolated the dothadthe from what thent the theep to thleep …”</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>The knock was apologetic.  Miscellaneous Stew sighed and set his tea precariously atop the misshapen lump of dried mud that had reminded someone of Offler too much to be safe around the children but hadn’t impressed Offler’s priests enough to keep.  He stumped downstairs to the door.  Where <em>had</em> he left his cane, too many damn holy or semi-holy or possibly holy sticks around this place to keep straight.</p><p>The door was barely open before the latest supplicant-donor was speaking.  “Only we went to the shrine of Anoia in Quirm, you know, the posh one, we were only there on holiday, but Maud said we should stop in, rattle the famous drawers, then we came home, then our Bridget made <em>this</em> –”</p><p>Something was thrust into his hands, and he automatically took a step back, knowing from painful experience that some artifacts wanted more ceremony in their hand-over.  Nothing happened beyond almost tripping over the rock that a mysterious shadow had passed over precisely seventeen minutes and twelve seconds after its donor had asked for a sign.  He sat down on it and looked at what he’d been given.</p><p>A reproduction of the shrine, in dried macaroni and glue.  Quite cleverly done: it even had one of the famous drawers, on tiny toothpick runners so you could pull it out a little way before it jammed on a piece of macaroni.  Miscellaneous was impressed despite himself.</p><p>“– only Maud says it’s too big and impossible to dust, but when she mentioned taking it apart all the kitchen drawers got stuck, so she wanted it gone <em>today</em>.  Bridget wanted to give it to Anoia’s priestess but we were hoping, maybe, it could be in the front display room here with a little sign, Maud made one …?”  The voice trailed off hopefully.</p><p>After extracting a safe-storage fee (higher than usual with the Disturbing My Morning Tea surcharge), Miscellaneous shut the door behind his visitor and took the macaroni shrine and its sign to the deepest sub-basement, where he kept all the items that might actually mean something to some god.  He talked to it on the way – better safe than sorry; one limp was enough.  “You’ll like it,” he said, “everything’s all jammed together, it’s the utensil drawer of the whole place.  I’ll ask the priestess of Anoia to come take a look at you.”</p><p>He nearly fell over trying to wedge the thing into the only place it would fit, but fortunately his hand fell on a staff that fit his grasp perfectly and was positioned just right to save him.  It turned out to be the ideal height to replace the cane that, now he thought about it, might have gone into the ritual fire during the very respectful all-gods spring cleaning ceremony.  He grunted, and took it back upstairs.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Freckles Stronginthearm ignored the geezer with the walking stick who’d paused to enjoy the view off the Brass Bridge.  The breeze was enough to keep the smell of the Ankh at bay, and it was a fine clear morning.  As long as he didn’t interfere, if he wanted to lean against the sun-warmed stone that was his business.</p><p>Snotty Boggs ran up to report that the mustaches on all the other hippos were done and should he get more mud?</p><p>Freckles regarded her own work with a professional eye.  This hippo had a particularly jaundiced expression, and the extra curl on the mud-stache suited it.  She shook her head at Snotty and slid down the hippo’s leg to the bridge.</p><p>She recognized the old man from this angle.  Her mother had once taken him a loaf of dwarf-bread that no one had wanted to eat because, beyond all the usual reasons not to eat dwarf bread, this one had had what could be the likeness of B’hrian Bloodaxe baked into its crust.</p><p>Mr. Stew turned to go.  That was the moment Snotty, who couldn’t have stolen a feather from a goosedown pillow fight unnoticed, tried to pickpocket him.</p><p>Whack!  Mr. Stew rapped Snotty’s head with impressive speed, then poked his walking stick firmly into Snotty’s chest and glared.</p><p>Snotty instantly began a spinning dance.  It wasn’t the oddest thing she’d seen him do to wiggle out of trouble.</p><p>Mr. Stew snorted, shook his head sternly, and turned away.</p><p>Snotty danced on, ending with a stomp-stomp, stomp-stomp, stomp STOMP.  He froze, then, and stared at Freckles in panic, squeaking, “He <em>done</em> somethin’!  I dint wanna dance!”</p><p>Her eyes narrowed.  Snotty was <em>her</em> annoyance.  No one <em>else</em> got to force him to do stupid dances as punishment.  She looked after Mr. Stew, who hadn’t looked back but hadn’t gotten far.  The moment her eyes lit on him, his walking stick leapt in front of his foot.  He went down in a briefly cursing heap.</p><p>She blinked.  But it had been clear: he’d only been holding the stick loosely.  He hadn’t misplaced it, it hadn’t bounced, he hadn’t done it.  The stick had leapt.</p><p>She was already moving by the time she realized she’d decided.  The walking stick was stout, but she was strong, and her hand had fallen on the most perfect grip.  She was half-way across the bridge with it before Mr. Stew started yelling.</p><p>By noon, she was secretly relieved when the stick jumped to someone else.</p><p>By evening, the Watch were asking questions.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Igor was waiting, as always, when Lady Margolotta awoke.  As always, he stood ready, knife in one hand, other held over the goblet.</p><p>If she ordered it, she would have blood.</p><p>One word.  The slightest nod.</p><p>Her pupils dilated, and her fangs tried to extend.  Igor was a sight to induce sore eyes, but that hardly mattered, he was alive and warm and full of blood, she could <em>smell</em> it, his heartbeat a calm rhythm in her ears.  He did not want her to drink, but he was loyal and understood her needs.  He would acquiesce, even if he spent the next hour giving her looks of restrained disappointment and overemphasizing his lisp.</p><p>Vetinari was nowhere in the area, she had no currently urgent business with the Low Queen, and Serafine von Überwald only liked to <em>think</em> herself a worthy opponent.  There was no need to push herself.  “Put that nonsense away,” she said briskly, “and give me the daily report.”</p><p>He looked at her reproachfully.</p><p>She hid a sigh.  She <em>did</em> appreciate his loyalty.  “I release thee from the blood gift, and thank thee for thy loyal service,” she amended, then reached for the fuzzy pink cardigan he had thoughtfully left waiting.</p><p>Igor nodded, satisfied, and made the knife and goblet disappear.  “The cabbadthe thedative workth, Ladythip,” he reported, pleased.</p><p>She allowed her eyebrows to rise very slightly.  Sometimes one had to work backwards from what Igor considered the most interesting facts of the day.  “I thought you’d tested it previously.”</p><p>“On theep,” Igor said dismissively.  “Today’th demonthtrathion wath on a perthon.  He’th out like a bat.”</p><p>“Is this person in any position to object in a way I need to account for?”</p><p>He shrugged.  “Don’t think tho.  Cabbadthe thief.  Poththible organ donor, we’ll thee how hith indthurieth heal, mutht athk around whether anyone needth anything.  Igor wath looking for a thet of kidneyth latht week.”</p><p>She identified the two relevant matters.  “How do you know he was a cabbage thief, and what injuries?”</p><p>“He <em>could</em> have been theeking to thteal the beetth or turnipth, I thuppothe,” Igor responded, “but he theemed not to realithe they were there.  Prethtwick hadn’t tried to bite him yet.”</p><p>She couldn’t let him start in about his favorite turnip.  “You found him in the shed, then.”</p><p>“Yeth, mithtrethth.  Theveral of the thingleth will need fikthing.”</p><p>She thought she might be getting nearer the important fact.  “Related to his still-unspecified injuries?”</p><p>“I thaw him fall through the roof.”</p><p>She cocked her head.  “He was crawling around my roofs?  Dauntless courage or profound stupidity, risking the gargoyles.  How long has it been since the von Überwalds had a family hunt?”  It <em>would</em> take courage or stupidity – or a possibly briefly entertaining political plan – for a human to seek refuge from the von Überwalds by skulking around <em>her</em> property.  She <em>was</em> getting close to the interesting bit.</p><p>But Igor was shaking his head.  “He fell from the thky, Ladythip.”</p><p>Ahhhh.  And there it was.</p><p>She smiled.  “Bring him to the high turret room in an hour.  He can wake there.”</p><p>“Yeth, mithtrethth.”</p><p>“Bathe him first.  In water.  With soap not containing cabbages in any form.”</p><p>“<em>Yeth</em>, mithtrethth.”</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Loki kept his eyes closed and drew a cautious breath, but the cabbage smell had receded to a faint aroma.  His wrists and ankles still appeared to be hobbled, but he could determine no more without giving his alertness away.  He no longer hurt.  Cold, fresh air moved lightly over him, and far away he heard a wolf howl, then another and another.  There was light on his closed eyelids – silvery, not too bright: probably moonlight.</p><p>Moonlight!  His eyes flew open.  That blasted moon – his path had taken him safely far from the tiny sun as he fell, but he’d been so engrossed studying the land before he lost the high view that he hadn’t noticed the moon.  It had slammed into him; he’d lost his grip on the Tesseract case, then fallen screaming in rage and pain but unable to change his path enough to follow it.  He’d lost sight of it long before the castle in the dark woods had filled his vision, reaching for him with sharply turreted roofs, spiked gargoyles and sturdy trees everywhere.  A shed roof and a stinking pile of cabbages<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> was probably the best he could have hoped for.</p><p>“Ah, are we done pretending to sleep?”  said a voice from the floor.  “Pity, I was enjoying corpse pose.”</p><p>He turned his head as a shadow rose with liquid, predatory grace.  From its movement he expected something with claws and fangs, but when it stepped into the light it turned out to be a woman of a certain age, pale, dressed in dark, practical slacks and a fuzzy pastel cardigan.</p><p>“Igor believes he’s discovered the author of a dastardly plot to steal our cabbages.  And beets, and possibly turnips,” she said calmly.  “<em>I</em> think that if he’s correct, a man who can launch himself into the sky with such precise aim, survive the fall, and heal his injuries in under a day is dreaming drastically too small.”</p><p>“And what do you think my dreams should be?” he murmured.  The cabbage ambience would make seduction difficult.  He would have tried imperiousness, despite his restraints, if not for that shadow.  It reminded him of Hela.  He essayed a sly smile, to keep her attention on his face, while he tested the ankle hobbles.</p><p>“Don’t,” she said, “your skin will rip off before that cabbage glue fails.  Igor’s very proud of it.”  Her glance lingered on his neck a split-second too long before she brought it back to his eyes.  “As for dreams, whatever yours may be, surely they’re of greater scope than one isolated castle can encompass.  There’s little future in cabbage-profiteering.  Your talents should be put to greater use.”</p><p>“You want to use me.”  It wasn’t going to be that kind of seduction: other than the glance at his neck, she was showing no interest.  A business negotiation, then.  She probably had nothing he needed, but it might be amusing to see what she offered.</p><p>“I have a … friend … who could use a little challenge.”</p><p>Sardonically: “Does he have a great deal of cabbage?”</p><p>Her smile was sharp.  “Only in outlying areas whose ownership he avoids discussing with Sto Lat.  But he is famously in charge of the biggest wahoonie of all, so as long as you’re willing to diversify your target vegetables …”</p><p>He would not ask what a wahoonie was.  “So you want … mischief.”</p><p>“Havelock could use a little in his life.  And I can use his distraction.  Can you do it?”</p><p>He almost laughed in her face.  “Madam, I am a <em>god</em>.”</p><p>This did not produce the expected effect.  “Ah, that explains it.  Kicked off Cori Celesti, were you?”  At his stare, she shrugged.  “Will any of them bother coming after you?”</p><p>That stung far more than he would admit even to himself, much less to her.  “There’s one who would, but he doesn’t know where I am.”</p><p>“And you’ll keep it that way until you’re ready to be known, I suppose.”  She cocked her head at him.  “If you’re a god, why haven’t you freed yourself?”</p><p>He smiled lazily, then let his magic absorb the cabbadthe addheth-<em>cabbage</em> <em>glue</em> and sat up, swinging one foot to the floor and spreading his arms.  “Hadn’t felt like it,” he drawled, then flailed as his leg unexpectedly failed to support him and he slid towards the floor.</p><p>She moved much faster to catch him than she should have been able to, and lifted him back to sit on the bed’s edge with strength too great for a human woman her size.  And she was cool to the touch.  Far too cool.</p><p>“A <em>small</em> god, I see,” she said acerbically.  “But what are you the god <em>of</em>?  Cabbages?  Gracious, have the turnips started <em>believing</em>?  You aren’t turnip-shaped …”</p><p>What the <em>hell</em> kind of place had the Tesseract brought him to.  His ability never to admit ignorance was sorely tested.  “I am the god of mischief, tricks and lies, and I have never been, nor do I ever desire to be, turnip-shaped.”  How dare she call him small.  If he weren’t temporarily embarrassed in the magical department, she’d be a turnip already.  “I was king until I was cast out, and I will be king again.”</p><p>She patted his cheek, and he revised his plans for her to <em>cabbage</em>.  “So you had many followers, and now you have few or none.  You had control of much, and now you have little.  You had power, and now …”</p><p>He narrowed his eyes at her.  She had no call to be so accurate, knowing so little.</p><p>She was unperturbed.  “Ankh-Morpork will be perfect for you.  Enough credulous fools for your sport to gain you followers and power, and while you distract Havelock, I shall be amused and busy.”</p><p>He hated to give her any information, but needs must.  “I lost … an item … in my fall, which I must find.”  Without his spear and with his magic sharply limited, he didn’t dare try to activate the Tesseract as a portal from a distance.</p><p>He could see her filing that fact away.  “An item of power.”</p><p>“Attuned only to me,” he lied smoothly.</p><p>There was skepticism in the twitch of her eyebrow, but she let it pass.  “No need to quarter the Disc searching.  Everything interesting ends up in Ankh-Morpork eventually.  If it’s attuned, it will come to you, not so?”</p><p>She was watching for his response a little too closely.  He smiled easily.  “I shall await it there.  Now, what are you offering me, to do your bidding?”</p><p>Her look suggested he’d missed an important point or three.  “Nothing but the fruits of your own labor.  Of course, if you’d <em>rather</em> stay here, with no believers, and exhaust what little remains of your magic, or swear fealty to me and live as one of my mortals …”  She looked amused by the idea.  “Or you could wander off in any direction you choose and, assuming the von Überwalds don’t find you when they’re hungry, or the trolls when they’re … trolls, spend all the time you like discovering for yourself that the quickest route to power lies where I have already suggested you go.”</p><p>He hid a frown behind cool insouciance.  If the rules were truly different here – and breaking his bonds should have been a trifle – then his first task must be to find out what they were.  From someone else.   “I hate to waste time when there’s cabbage on the line,” he shrugged, affecting boredom.  “If mortals crowd together there, it’s as good a place as any.  How do you suggest I get there?  Since I am, as you say –” He swept an extravagant seated bow.  “– left with but little of my magic, and I don’t intend to walk.”</p><p>“Igor will buy you a ticket for the train,” she said, with the slightest smile to mark his capitulation.  “Perhaps you’ll acquire a follower or two before you even reach the city.”</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> And beets, and adventurous turnips.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Day 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Loki learns about lettuce and metaphysics; Moist von Lipwig gets a boost; and Nobby appreciates Art.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Train travel was mostly dull.</p><p>Loki was not at home to dull.</p><p>He’d spent the morning until departure innocently wandering the castle grounds, doing his best to give Igor the impression of barely suppressed fits of brassicaceous kleptomania.  Igor had retaliated with baleful glares, frequent appearances behind his shoulder to inquire acidly if <em>mathter</em> had any <em>requethtth</em>, and dropping cabbage leaves near Loki’s feet during Prestwick’s hourly hunting excursions.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a></p><p>Now the soothing rhythm of the train grated on his nerves.  He’d half a mind to –</p><p>“Brother, can you shpare shome lettush for Om?  Aaaagh!”  The man’s dentures appeared to have bitten him.  He took them out, shook them, turned them upside down, then shoved them back in and shook his head so hard that something rattled.</p><p>What was it with these people and their obsession with green, leafy substances?  “Shove off.”  But no: even a conversation about vegetables was preferable to another ten minutes of watching scenery go by, especially if there was a chance the dentures might do something else amusing.  “No.  Sit.  Who is Om, why does he, she, it or they need lettuce, and why would you expect me to have any?  Don’t bore me.”</p><p>“The Great God Om –” Some sort of gesture clearly a ritual reference to horns, which Loki chose to interpret as smaller than those on his own helmet.  “– doesh not <em>need</em> lettush – ow!”  Remove, shake, rotate, shove, shake.  “But we sheek it for him as an ekshpression of faith so that he may continue to not need it, Om willing.”</p><p>Other people needed words to be properly sardonic.  Loki had his face.</p><p>His seat-mate took this as an earnest invitation to explain.  Five minutes later, Loki was struggling to hide his horror of becoming turnip-shaped.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Moist grunted as he hoisted the last wire spool onto his back.</p><p>Given time, his engineers had assured him, even this tower anchored halfway up a cliff could have been built safely.  Engineering words had flown by and he had nodded in all the right places.  It didn’t matter; there wasn’t time.  When Lady Margolotta <em>and</em> the Low Queen <em>and</em> Baroness von Überwald all wanted the latest upgrade to clacks transmission speed, Vetinari expected to do no more than raise an eyebrow before Moist asked how high.</p><p>The engineers wanted months.  Vetinari had asked what day next week Moist would be back from erecting the upgraded tower.  Moist had felt his smile go brittle, and the only reason it hadn’t cracked entirely was the blueprints he’d thought only he and Dick Simnel knew existed.</p><p>The supplies and other engineers had departed for Überwald within the hour; Dick even let them have Iron Girder.  Adora Belle had gone along wearing her spikiest stilettos and her fiercest look, daring anyone to suggest she not.  Moist already felt sorry for any train robbers, highwaymen or bureaucrats who tried to interfere.  Moist and Dick spent three sleepless days and nights in the secure railroad workshop, building and testing and icing injuries and, at Moist’s insistence, painting the thing gold like his first famous suit.  Then he’d let Dick bolt him in and headed for the tower site, staying near water and swearing to himself about the weight and stench of the fuel (dried, compressed dung bricks, courtesy of Sir Harry) and how quickly the steam ran out.</p><p>Now, after sunset on his last allotted day, he had only one more heavy thing to lift.  He shook his arms and legs to slosh the water in the tanks: good, enough left.  He checked his posture, adjusted his aim, spread his hands and clenched his fingers to activate the steam-jets from his palms and soles of his boots.  With all the practice he’d had, he was finally moving smoothly as he shot up and landed on the tower balcony.</p><p>Willing hands quickly removed the spun-out wire spool from his back, anchored the end and wound the whole thing tight.  “Light ’er up!” he said cheerfully.  He waved and stepped back off the balcony, using the steam to slow his fall, though as usual he wound up with one hand and knee going to the ground.  He <em>really</em> needed a lighter power source, but Vetinari wasn’t going to hand over a Device just so he could fly better.</p><p>Adora Belle extricated him from the suit.  They loaded the pieces on their coach and climbed to its roof, turning to watch the tower.  Moist held his breath.  The clacks tower lit from the bottom up, shaped and colored cells running through test patterns with increasing smoothness and speed against the darkening sky.</p><p>“Like Hogswatch,” he murmured to Adora Belle, struck by a hazy childhood memory of throwing powders in the fire to color the flames.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a></p><p>“I’ll check with Of the Clacks the Mathematics tomorrow to see if her projections<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a> are holding up,” Adora Belle said.</p><p>Moist turned to her fondly. “Spike, you're killing me.  Remember?  Enjoy the moment.”</p><p>Adora Belle swung nimbly down off the roof and into the coach.  “Get in here and I will.”</p><p>Moist smiled.  “I’ll tell them to have the tower party without us.  We should make some distance tonight, after all, Lord Vetinari will be getting impatient.  Once we’re far enough they won’t come share the scumble …”</p><p>“My impatience is far closer and more personal than his.”</p><p>Moist grinned, made his goodbyes to the goblins and dwarfs checking over the new tower, and drove the coach with remarkable restraint.  They had almost reached the inn as the last light was fading, when Moist’s attention was further distracted by a dim blue glow a little way off the path.  He brought the horses to a halt and bent to speak to Adora Belle, only to see her examining the view herself, Burleigh &amp; Stronginthearm crossbow braced on the window ledge.</p><p>“Put the suit on,” she said shortly.  “I’ll guard the coach.”</p><p>Moist held still while she tightened the bolts.  He wouldn’t be able to fly under the trees, but Dick swore the suit would keep him “as well protected as <em>she</em> is,” and everyone knew how Dick felt about Iron Girder.  “You’re not coming?” Moist asked innocently.</p><p>Adora Belle climbed up to the roof with her crossbow.  The ladder did not have the temerity to make doing so in a tight gown and stilettos look difficult.  She glanced down at him.  “People who wear practical boots to go traipsing through dark woods at night bring the interesting things back for people who wear shoes like this to look at,” she pointed out reasonably.</p><p>It <em>had</em> been awhile since he’d had that feeling of jumping off into the unknown.  Three days, actually: the suit’s first test flight.  He clanked and sloshed awkwardly over the rough ground.  Tree roots and rocks were visible only as outlines against the blue glow, until he reached a small clearing.  Jagged branches overhead looked recently broken from above.  The blue light came from a case cracked open and dented by its fall.</p><p>“Hello?” Moist called, but no one answered.  He approached cautiously, to find that the case contained a glowing blue cube, and no instruction manual.  He glanced at the canopy break overhead, thinking it would be easier to fly back to the coach than stumble through the woods carrying the case, then bent to pick it up.</p><p>A brilliant blue gleam flashed out from the cube, and he shot high into the air.  He barely managed to hold onto the case as he fell towards the coach and the cliff beyond.   He tried to turn on the steam jets to slow his fall, and promptly shot yet higher.  Frantic hand-wiggling sent blue beams in all directions, and he landed heavily, then toppled over slowly.</p><p>He heard Adora Belle climb down from the coach roof, not hurrying.  She stepped over to him, not bothering to pick her way carefully; he’d like to see the rock that would dare trip <em>her</em>, he though muzzily.</p><p>“Interesting,” she said calmly.  “You did want a better power source for the suit.  That should give you, oh, at least a twelve percent boost.”</p><p>“An argument could be made for fifteen,” he managed, then passed out.</p><p>He awoke to Adora Belle wrestling him out of the suit.  He helped her, groaning, then used some of its pieces to pick up the broken case and its contents without touching them.  He moved the whole mess into the coach and threw his coat over it.</p><p>He was about to request that she drive them to the inn when a voice behind his shoulder said, “Mithter von Lipwig –”</p><p>He jumped, yelped, tripped, and fell again.</p><p>“– Commander Vimeth requethtth your prethenth at the Watth Houthe prethently.”</p><p>Moist had enough money now to afford an Igor, but they gave him the creepth.  Disembodied voices speaking from the ceiling was one thing and perfectly acceptable, the goblin children liked the acoustics and the adults had too much fun making their own paths through the house for him to tell them off, but right behind your shoulder like that was <em>not on</em>.  He would have assumed that miles and miles of bloody Überwald would render them secure from the intrusions of the Watch’s Igor, but clearly that was foolish.  He wondered, head swimming slightly, if he built a really lifelike model of himself, perhaps out of wax, whether he could decoy an Igor into popping up behind its shoulder.</p><p>“Coalthon!” said Adora Belle warmly, and wait, that was wrong, why was she speaking warmly to anyone, much less –</p><p>“Coalson?  His name is Igor.”</p><p>“Only on the inthide, thir.”</p><p>“Hop on,” Adora Belle said, “we’re celebrating.  Only a little way to the inn.”</p><p>“Which is why he can’t hop on.”</p><p>“Commander Vimeth requethtth you ekthamine thith <em>toute thuite</em>, thir.”  Coalson held out a sheaf of Watch reports.</p><p>Moist had had <em>plans</em> for this evening, dammit.  “I don’t like being handed things,” he improvised.</p><p>“That’s all right, ’cause I love to be handed things,” Adora Belle said, cheerful tone boding ill for him.  She traded Coalson the reports for her crossbow, then handed Moist the reports and reclaimed the crossbow.</p><p>He flipped through the papers.  Phrases like “a grayte woden stycke” and “<strike>eppy epuhdemyck</strike> a hole lout of citizens Commenced to Dance &amp; apeered Much Disterbed Thereby” marked Sergeant Colon’s contribution.  There was even a drawing on one, which the artist had annotated with numerous exclamation points and “pole = stick???”  A scrawled note across its top read, “Whoever sent Constable Visit-the-Infidel-With-Explanatory-Pamphlets to the Pink PussyCat Club ‘to investigate the dancing,’ see me immediately. –Vimes”</p><p>“We’re not stopping at the inn, are we,” Adora Belle said.  “I’ll put the lanterns up and drive on while you read.”</p><p>“If I finish, can we stop for a bit?”</p><p>Adora Belle lidded her eyes at him, then glanced at Coalson.  “Do you need a ride?”</p><p>“No!” said he just a shade too quickly.  “I have thomewhere elthe I’m thuppothed to be thortly.”</p><p>Adora Belle raised an eyebrow.  “I thought Sally’s cello recital got cancelled.”</p><p>Coalson nodded.  “The’th thtuck with ekthtra thiftths thorting out thith danthing thituathion.  I have another perthon to fetth for Commander Vimeth.”</p><p>Moist tilted his head.  “How do you just <em>appear</em> – no, never mind, professional secret, I’m sure.  But I don’t remember you lisping this much.  Between that and the lack of scars I thought I had you pegged as one of the more modern Igors …”</p><p>“The lack of thcarth <em>where motht other people can thee</em>, thir,” said Coalson smoothly, with a smile that begged to be described as pothitively thly.  He adjusted his exquisitely hand-tailored jacket.  “I <em>am</em> quite modern in my viewth of Igorhood, thir, and my mathtery of really tiny thtitthing, but thith ith my home.  The anthethtral thoil inthpireth me.”</p><p>Moist held the reports out of spitting range.  “Why does Commander Vimes want <em>me</em>?”</p><p>Coalson shrugged.  “He thaid to tell you that it wath to do with the theventh report, but he altho thaid ‘because if any bugger is pulling a fast one here, nobody better to figure it out and pull a faster one back than our slightly damp friend.’”</p><p>Moist, figuring this for a compliment, forbore complaint and flipped to the seventh report.  Watch Captain von Humpeding wrote that dancing had broken out at a ball jointly hosted by Lord Rust and Lady Selachii, “who were insistent, despite the stated purpose of the evening, that <em>this</em> dancing was ridiculous, low-class, and thoroughly against the will of the dancers.  I was unable to appreciate the degree of difference in ridiculousness between the dances described to me as unacceptable and those I witnessed ongoing around me, but will of course accept Lord Rust’s and Lady Selachii’s words.  Lady Selachii stated that ‘Vimes had better get this sorted or measures will be taken,’ at which point Lord Rust cast her a glance and she stopped speaking.  As I left, once I was beyond the range at which they assumed I could hear, Lord Rust mentioned the ‘Ankh-Morpork Security Council.’”</p><p>Moist sighed.  He didn’t relish interacting with Ankh-Morpork’s aristocracy any more than they relished interacting with him, but he could keep his temper with them better than Vimes could.  He climbed gloomily into the coach, waiting until Igor had departed to uncover the glowing cube.  Might as well save on lantern oil.  Outside, Adora Belle set up the night-driving lanterns and clucked to the horses.  Moist settled back into reading.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Nobby Nobbs was less comfortable than usual on dancing nights.  Mr. Vimes had nodded gravely at him and told him to go on, hobbies were healthy, and he was glad to see Nobby wasn’t allowing fear of the strange dancing to frighten him off.  Who knew, perhaps he’d even hear something of note.  Nobby had considered that, considered not going after all, considered what Mr. Vimes might say if he found out Nobby hadn’t gone, and then sighed and worn black under his dance costume.  If there was to be sneaking about, or running away and not getting seen by dance-inflicting madmen, he would be ready.</p><p>His fellow club-members were full of chatter about the strange dancing – no one had been affected, but everyone claimed to know someone who knew someone who had been – and so several dances passed before Nobby noticed the sign pointing up the stairs to the second floor of the warehouse they used for their meetings.  “Ladies’ Society of Art Appreciation – free buffet – LADIES WHO APPRECIATE ART ONLY.”  It had a stylized drawing of the sort of posh lady whose waist was half the width of her head and whose simple black dress and long red hair flung out in dramatic curves, even though she was merely lounging against a wall artistically preparing to throw a palette knife.  Apparently art appreciation was a blood sport.</p><p>Nobby looked at the sign.  He looked at his costume.  He fished around in the recesses of his clothing for a knife.  He looked at Glitterin’ Dave, who never missed a dance.  “Got another wig?”</p><p>* * *</p><p>With Glitterin’ Dave’s enthusiastic help, he’d cut and glued his black clothes into something low-necked, sleeveless, and short-skirted, and the wig mostly stayed on straight.  But Glitterin’ Dave's spare high heels were far too large.  He’d never have made it up the stairs.</p><p>A lady who was so posh she almost looked like the picture saw him as he reached the second floor.  She gave him one very sharp glance, then her face softened into a smile.  “Welcome, dear,” she said.  “So glad you could make it.  Come have some canapés!  And sec- … thir- … fifth-hand Watch boots really make a statement with that dress, don’t they, I love it!  What’s your name?  I’m Daphne.”</p><p>Nobby had not thought this far ahead.  “Nobb…Nobbie?” he offered.</p><p>“Such a pleasure!”  As they moved into the crowd around the buffet, she leaned down to whisper in his ear, “I have a cousin like you.  I don’t think anyone here will give you trouble, but if they do you let me know.”</p><p>Nobby figured he could handle someone trying to grab food off his plate just fine himself, but when a posh lady whispered nice things in your ear, you smiled and nodded.  He smiled and nodded.  He put some of everything on his plate without wasting time asking what anything was.</p><p>“Debbie, how about Ruby’s <em>Composition With Big Rock And Little Rock</em>?” the person next to him asked her companion.</p><p>Nobby knew this one.  Detritus was a very proud husband.  “They symbolize rocks,” he said with his mouth full.</p><p>The room fell silent.  Every eye was on him.  “Nnnnooooo,” said a black woman in a musical accent, pushing her locs over her shoulder.  “They symbolize things bein’ hard, but havin’ the big rock over the little one means when there’s a big hard thing, the small one don’ look so bad.”</p><p>An Agatean woman across the buffet scoffed over her plate of grimchi.  “Artist’s intentions aside, what they symbolize to <em>us</em>,” she said pointedly, “is the high value of art when concentrated in easily movable items.”</p><p>“Nah,” Nobby said around his next mouthful.  “’S rocks.  Detritus said.  Ruby told him.”</p><p>There was another silence, and traded glances, which Nobby ignored in favor of his plate.  There was an éclair on it, briefly.</p><p>“This would be Sergeant Detritus of the Watch?” Daphne asked.</p><p>Nobby nodded, and had the impression of further glances.</p><p>“Well … Nobbie … let’s take our plates – oh, certainly, you can fill yours again – and go sit down so we can discuss art more comfortably,” Daphne said, and there was something not quite right about her tone of voice, but it didn’t really register around the little shrimp things with the spices.  It wasn’t until he tried to cross his ankle over his knee that he realized his bootlaces had been tied around the chair legs.  Shortly after that, he’d been relieved of his plate and his arms secured to the chair with someone’s sash.</p><p>Daphne shook her head at him sadly.  “This was not how I wanted the evening to go,” she said.  “Lou –”  She spoke to someone behind him in rapid Quirmian.</p><p>“Oh, I know that one!” Nobby said excitedly.  “Le chat de mon oncle s’est assis sur mon chapeau!”</p><p>She raised an eyebrow.  “The Watch has such a reputation, but you’re nothing but a pretty face.”</p><p>Nobby stared at her.  A cigarette end fell out from behind his ear and entangled itself in the wig.  “You really think I’m pretty?”</p><p>Something complicated moved across Daphne’s face.  She made no move to untie him, and in fact seemed to be eyeing the selection of palette knives and brushes they’d brought her with disturbing intent, but her voice was gentle when she said, “Of course, dear.”</p><p>“So … this is performance art?” Nobby said uncertainly.  “I just saw the sign and thought: free food!  If I’d realized we were doing performance art with it I’d’ve brought my collection of entertainingly shaped vegetables, you wouldn’t <em>believe</em> the symbolism you can get up to with those, I’ve got one that looks like a –”</p><p>“Corporal Nobbs,” said a voice right behind his shoulder, and Nobby was the only one who didn’t startle.</p><p>“How did you –” Daphne started angrily.</p><p>“We go where we’re needed,” said Coalson, unruffled.  “And I walked up the stairs, right past the guard you didn’t post.  Corporal Nobbs, we need you to come in.”</p><p>“Are you kidding?  I’m in the middle of a performance art piece, they’ve given me everything,” said Nobby.  “Even the spotted dick.”</p><p>“<em>We</em> had nothing to do with <em>that</em>,” said Daphne, adding to Coalson, “You surely don’t think we’ll let the two of you leave.”</p><p>Coalson smiled politely.  “Currently, you’ve got Corporal Nobbs, who doesn’t realize what you’re doing, and me, who’s willing to overlook it for now.  Commander Vimes is eight minutes away – would you really rather he come looking for two of his Watchmen being held against their will?”</p><p>Daphne’s mouth tightened, but she nodded to another woman, who untied Nobby’s arms.  They left him to deal with his own bootlaces.  No one spoke while he picked at them, but even looking down he could tell that entire dramatic readings were being conducted in glances above him.</p><p>If the important thing was going to be said, he was going to have to say it.  “Could I get a to-go box?”</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> What Prestwick really wanted, of course, was to stalk celery.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> This was supposed to scare off monsters who might come down your chimney and steal your presents.  Instead, it had merely scared Moist off of believing anything grown-ups said, because any ninny could tell that monsters smart enough to climb down chimneys and steal presents would be careful of fire regardless of color.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Of the Clacks the Mathematics was doing things with numbers that Moist was sure would be illegal once Vetinari caught any accountants other than his own trying them.  He didn’t understand himself what vermine had to do with the transmission of information, but she assured him that the furrier transformation was revolutionary.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The characters in the Ladies’ Society of Art Appreciation are a nod to characters from Ocean’s Eight (Debbie, Lou, Daphne, Nine Ball and Constance).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Day 3, part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Loki develops a political opinion; Nobby is not sent; Vimes detects a pointy bit; and revenge is not sweet if its target remains oblivious.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Loki spent a sleepless night wondering how many worshippers he had, how close they had to be in astronomical terms to count, and how long before he was metaphorically – with luck – flipped on his back hoping for his Brutha to lend him a hand.   By morning, he was as ready for distraction as a turtle nearing the finale of an eagle’s testudinal ballistics experiment.</p><p>After the train stopped at Twoshirts to take on water, Loki stole a copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times Dispatch, one page at a time, from a variety of fellow passengers.  “Clacksed Straight To Our Dedicated Pryntynge Presse!” blared the slogan.  “Whyle You Goe To Ankh-Morpork, Ankh-Morpork Comes To You!”  A prominent item in the business section informed him that one Moist von Lipwig was expected to announce tripled clacks speed between Ankh-Morpork and Bonk/Schmaltzberg, “imminently, on pain of kittens” per a Lord Vetinari.</p><p>Moist.  Von.  Lipwig.  On pain of kittens.  This place badly needed a ruler to set it straight.</p><p>There were hours and hours of this wretched train yet to go.</p><p>Loki idly folded the page into a paper airplane, to the fascination of three small children a few rows away.  Sensing potential, he made two more and sent the airplanes their way.  He bent himself to making the last page into the best airplane of all, but paused when he saw a small headline wobbling its way across one column: “Mystery Stycke Tied To Outbreake Of Dancing: Watch Stucke.”</p><p>Thirty seconds later, Loki was grinning.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>“So you can’t just wave the stick at people to make them dance?  You have to hit them with it?”</p><p>“More like poke,” said Nobby, demonstrating.  “Right in the chest.  Or that’s what Foul Ole Ron said he saw, anyway.  Well, ‘buggrit stick dance and shrimp,’” he amended, “but he showed me what he meant.  And Duck Man showed me the dance.  Very folkloric.  Not a patch on the Morris, o’ course.”</p><p>“Why isn’t it still in the godly-rubbish storage shed collecting dust?  That’s an eight-day-a-week job.”</p><p>Carrot frowned at Commander Vimes, who really should know better after all the times Carrot had reminded him.  “It’s a museum for possibly holy artifacts, sir.  Mr. Stew is performing an important public service.”</p><p>“I didn’t like the <em>last</em> time we had a thinking stick.  Never trust anything if you can’t see where it keeps its brains.”</p><p>“Magical, sir?” Sally offered.  “Call in the wizards?  It could be their problem.”</p><p>“It’s the city’s problem,” said Vimes.  “The city does not also need the problem of wizards trying to do Watch work.”</p><p>“There is one wizard who’s already a Watchman,” Angua pointed out.  “Or, at least, he has a badge on a string and he doesn’t always hit people with it.  Perhaps he could find a way to track it.”</p><p>Vimes thought about it.  The Librarian already had a domain he guarded fiercely; if he did take the stick, he wasn’t likely to do more with it than use it on students bringing food near the books.  “All right,” he said.  “Nobby.”</p><p>“Why am <strong><em>I</em></strong> on monkey-fetch detail?”</p><p>There was a pause.</p><p>“I’ll go, sir,” said Carrot smoothly.  “I have books to return to him.”</p><p>Vimes nodded.  “I’m due at the palace to tell Lord Vetinari what we’re doing to return the fine citizens of our fair city to their usual mode of staid, sedate, morally respectable behavior.”</p><p>“I’m sure he’s looking forward to hearing, sir,” said Angua.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>Lord Vetinari was not alone in the conference room.  Vimes entered and stood to attention.</p><p>“Do be seated, Commander,” Lord Vetinari said mildly.  “Lord Rust and Lady Selachii are offering me their opinions on the laziness of those who would dance rather than work, as well as the indignity of involuntary exertion suffered by their guests at the ball.  I felt it only courteous to invite them to hear what the Watch is doing about the issue.”</p><p>Vimes considered remaining on his feet to annoy Vetinari, but sitting at the table like an equal would annoy the other two.  He sat.  “Inquiries are proceeding.  We are consulting with Unseen University.”</p><p>“That Nobbs creature came to my <em>front</em> door, Commander, claiming to be the Watch’s ‘folkloric dance expert,’” said Lady Selachii, handling the expression with the vocal equivalent of a long pair of tongs.  “He assembled my staff in the grand ballroom, <em>without</em> removing his boots, and encouraged them to mimic what they had seen of their betters on the night of the ball.”</p><p>“Morris always better,” Lord Vetinari murmured, “but will having a wizard on staff and a Nobbs, in the end, suffice?”</p><p>Vimes gave him a sharp look.  What was he playing at?</p><p>Lord Rust sniffed.  “The issue goes beyond one mere stick, surely.  The city is being inundated by questionable objects, and you, my lord, jest.”</p><p>“Commander,” said Vetinari, “how many objects of concern have been reported in the last six months?”</p><p>“Concern to the informant?  Twenty-seven.  Concern once investigated?  Only the stick.”  He kept his attention on Vetinari, though he could see Lord Rust puffing up.  “The others turned out to be a troll’s sulfur drink, an unggue pot, a loaf of battle bread, and the like.  Non-human things, perfectly harmless.  Those filing reports were all human,” he added offhandedly.</p><p>“Now see here,” Lady Selachii said sharply.  “I don’t like what you’re implying.”  She turned to Vetinari.  “I think we must insist upon a stronger response to this problem.  Surely it’s unacceptable that our guests were humiliated by a magic-stick-wielding lawn orn–”</p><p>Vetinari’s face showed only the politest of inquiries.  “Yes, Precaria?”</p><p>“It’s a simple solution,” Lord Rust.  “All the Watch need do is stop anyone carrying anything stick-like – or resembling any other object of occult concern – for a brisk chat.”</p><p>“Concisely put,” said Vetinari, before Vimes could tell Rust exactly what he thought, “but rather than a ‘stop-briskly’ policy, Commander, I thought perhaps you could establish a special unit.  The … Thaumaturgical Interception, Evaluation and Loggysticks Division, perhaps, if I have got Mr. Simnel’s terminology correct.”</p><p>Vimes knew an order when he heard one.  He also knew that Vetinari knew that THIELD would merely be a new label for what they were already doing.  Vetinari wasn’t one for pointless gestures, which meant there was a point.  Vimes just hoped he could avoid getting poked by it.</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>“Why here, sir?”  Mr. Bent did not appreciate having to hurry to keep up with his putative employer, whom he allowed within the sacred precincts of his bank on sufferance.  The vault, never large, felt positively crowded as Hubert Turvy and Igor constructed a new Glooper within it to model the behavior of the blue cube.  “Surely Mr. Stibbons and his compatriots with their thinking machine are better equipped –”</p><p>“Wizards can’t resist the fifth go-round of the truffle trolley, d’you think they’d resist a power source like this?” Moist said.  “I’ll allow Mr. Stibbons in to consult with Hubert, but the cube stays here, underground and secure, with someone I trust to keep an eye on things.”</p><p>Mr. Bent eyed the cube distastefully.  It pulsed brighter at him.  “With all due respect, sir, I see better from a distance.”  He shuddered.  “<em>That</em> makes me feel as though ants are running around on my skin.”</p><p>“Why, Mr. Bent, I never took you to be one for public formication.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Day 3, part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Loki arrives in Ankh-Morpork; the Librarian does a colleague a favor, presumably; Loki acquires, or possibly is acquired; and the Librarian is, after all, a <strong>reference</strong> librarian.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So much appreciation for Faileas, I love the little sketches!</p><p>Minor TW: Loki has one line that could be read as implying he's going to sexually abuse a child.  He's not.  Further explanation in the endnotes.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>The afternoon sun was warm as the train finally chuffed to a stop in Ankh-Morpork.  Winking goodbye to the children with their newspaper airplanes, Loki tripped the conductor on the way out, feeling a faint pulse from the children’s admiration.</p><p>He needed more.</p><p>Lady Margolotta had given him a pouch of coin, but it was more fun to pick pockets as he moved through the crowd of disembarking passengers.  That lasted until he examined his haul:  pins.  Stamps.  A tangled mess that turned out to be a string, some sticks and an egg.  No coins.</p><p>He scowled.  A gaggle of his former fellow passengers moved by, arguing in dwarfish, but he left them alone.  Pickhelmeting held no attraction.</p><p>He felt eyes on him and looked up to find his last mark squinting at him: a young woman in a faded blue dress, boots much too big for her, and a pointy ha- no, no hat, why had he thought she had a hat?  Odd.</p><p>She sniffed disdainfully.  “I can make another easily enough,” she said calmly, “and it’s not as if <em>you’d</em> know how to use it.”  Without looking away, but as though speaking to an audience – though no one else appeared to be paying them any attention – she said, “Let’s offski.  –No, you may <em>not</em> give him a faceful o’ heid, he hasn’t earned it.  Yet.”  With a last look that suggested she’d seen everything there was to see about him and wasn’t impressed, she moved on, leaving him disconcerted.</p><p>“<em>Rat</em> onna stick!  <em>Rat</em> onna stick!  Get chore <em>rat</em> onna stick!  Just like back home!” sang out ahead of him.</p><p>The arguing dwarfs responded to this with dark looks.  “We’ve been warned about you, friend,” said one.  “Back home, rats run away, they don’t give you the runs.”</p><p>Loki sensed a possible kindred spirit.  “Surely you don’t believe everything you’re told about the big city,” he interjected smoothly.  “Fooling the country cousins is such an old trick, isn’t it?”  He turned to the vendor.  “I’ll take two.”</p><p>The vendor was better at hiding his flash of uncertainty than the dwarfs were.  He handed over two rats from his portable tray.  “Five pins or two ha’penny-overnights, sir!”</p><p>Apparently the pickpocketry had not been in vain.  Loki surrendered payment with a hidden sigh, missing the scale of mischief possible with credit cards.  When he ruled here, he’d put his own stamp on things.  For now, he’d have to eat rat and sell it better than this mortal ever could.  He put a smile on his face and bit in nonchalantly, using the barest wisp of power gained from the children’s awe to make the … stuff … disappear before he had to taste it.  It was still harder than it should have been.  “Ah, I’ve missed this,” he sighed.  “Stay, I may have to have a third.”</p><p>The dwarfs looked at him skeptically.  Behind them, the vendor looked quite concerned when he didn’t leave.  Once he’d made it through the first rat with no immediate ill effects, the vendor relaxed, and the dwarfs looked at each other, shrugged, and bought out the remaining stock.</p><p>After they left, Loki handed the untouched rat back to the vendor and said, “You’re welcome.”</p><p>The vendor took the rat and looked at him quizzically.  “Can’t say I don’t appreciate it, but why?  If it’s a long answer, walk with me – best move on before they come back looking for us.”</p><p>Loki could feel a faint tendril of admiration from the vendor, but it wasn’t enough.  “I need information, and I’ve just paid you for it.”</p><p>The vendor smiled broadly.  “I sell all kinds of things, I do, and for a sweet performance like that I’ll give you my best rate, that’s cuttin’ me own –”</p><p>“You’ll give me what I ask, and you’ll tell no one I asked for it.  This outbreak of dancing: where has it been worst lately?”</p><p class="align-center">
  
</p><p>The Librarian hung upside down over the main stacks, meditatively finishing the last of the bananas Carrot had brought, along with his books and his request for assistance.  The bananas had been a bit green, but not enragingly so.  Carrot liked the historical shelves and would come in every week with a list of things people had suggested he look up.  He acted as though he actually wanted to learn, merely from curiosity; it was an unusual enough attitude at Unseen University that the Librarian had taken quite some time to accept it was real.  Eventually he rationalized it as survival: Carrot was far from the mine shafts where he’d grown up and needed to understand his new world.</p><p>He sniffed and expertly flicked the banana peel into the small L-space rift<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> that lived above the Staff-Enhancement Spells shelf.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a>  There was briefly a faint smell of cherries.<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a></p><p>He sighed, scratched an armpit, and swung down to raid the stash of chocolate he allowed Ponder Stibbons to keep behind the Arcane Geometries shelves<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a> on the condition that it be well sealed, frequently replenished, and never acknowledged.  He had no spell to reveal the location of the stick that, however hokey its effects, was causing so much trouble, but he knew what was needed: a map to mark each report of forced dancing.  The broad streets of Ankh-Morpork’s busiest areas, usually pumped full of traffic of all sorts, had emptied as everyone from priests to johns no longer felt assured of their safety.  The Watch had been marking reports on their own map, but that was too slow.  They needed something much, much faster, and the Librarian knew where to find it.</p><p>Fortifying himself with a chocolate bar in each hand, he swung into L-space.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The stick came to his hand as though it had been seeking him.  Loki smiled.  The mortal fools might use it for only one kind of control, but he would not be so bound.</p><p>Around him, the small crowd of market customers who’d been the latest target of the stick’s previous bearer turned and ran.  The previous bearer himself, a mortal urchin, spat at Loki’s feet and said, “Ain’t dancin’ for you.”  He made as if to run, but Loki was quicker, so much quicker, and the stick caught the boy on the chest.</p><p>“You’ll do so much more than dance,” Loki promised.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The Librarian passed over shelves banal and bizarre, following instinct and a faintly glittering trail of narrativium.  He knew he was getting close when he had to dodge fantastic beasts,<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a> rolling to escape the snap of a particularly monstrous book, and pass soulless guardians who relented only because in any library anywhere, he was an expected patron.  At last the space of a particular library solidified around him.  At a small table below his shadowed perch atop a shelf (“Transformations and Borrowings”), two heads whose hair shared the tint of his own fur bent over the map he needed.</p><p>They were alert and furtive.  Attempting distraction would only make them grab the map and run.</p><p>He swung down onto their table and grinned at them, proffering the chocolate he’d brought in case the guardians proved recalcitrant.</p><p>They goggled at him.</p><p>“Ook,” he explained calmly.</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> L-space contains all possible libraries and all possible writings.  Therefore, it must contain at least one library in which books are written or printed on dried banana skins.  Therefore, somewhere there’s a librarian or an author who needs banana skins.  And though the ways of L-space are many and strange, at least two laws are known: All things shall, eventually, be filed in their proper place.  And favors to professional colleagues never go amiss.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Alphabetical by side effect.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Resulting from red-shift.  L-space files things <em>very quickly</em>.  If you are standing near an L-space rift and smell blueberries, it’s already too late to duck.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> Because Ponder often needed to approach programming Hex from a new angle.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> It helped that he had known where to find them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Just to be suuuuuuper clear here, Loki can't resist an evil-sounding line, but "you'll do so much more than dance" just means he's being a smug twit about how HE can use the stick to make people do other things than a single formulaic dance, because he is super special and clever and smarter and better than all these mortal idiots who don't understand the power they've been holding.  It is not a hint of anything else.  Loki quickly gets bored with making the urchin do handstands and releases him.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Day 4, part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which a marauding Loki is mapped; Moist assists the Watch with their inquiries; Loki makes a change; and the Nac Mac Feegle do not rob a bank.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vimes and Angua spread the map on the table, once the Librarian was satisfied its surface was sufficiently clean.  The familiar contours of the city were nearly obscured by tiny footprints rapidly appearing and disappearing, each path labeled with a name.  As the Librarian ooked at it patiently, the map gradually cleared of normal traffic.</p><p>“So <em>that’s</em> where Chrysoprase –” Vimes started, half to himself, only to have an orange-furred finger waved firmly under his nose.  He looked up.</p><p>“Oooooook,” said the Librarian sternly, and tapped a thick black nail on the map.  The names disappeared.</p><p>Vimes closed his eyes and took a long breath.  “You’re right,” he admitted.  “That’s going too far.  Can’t see where this thing keeps its brains either, can we?”  He looked back down.  The Librarian had managed to hide most normal foot traffic.  Small red dots proliferated on the Brass Bridge and in other locations Vimes recognized from the recent reports.  Sator Square was nearly all red – that had been last night, the worst yet.  The stick’s trail was easy to follow.</p><p>Angua tapped the map near the Temple of Blind Io.  “Look.”  Several sets of footprints appeared and disappeared in the same place: flash-flash, flash-flash, FLASH FLASH.</p><p>Vimes narrowed his eyes.  “All officers.  Clear the civilians, don’t let the wielder poke you with it, <em>get that stick</em>.”  He left Angua to get the details underway and stomped downstairs.  He didn’t care what political games Vetinari played, and he couldn’t muster much sympathy for aristocrats forced to dance at their own ball, but this damn stick was making people afraid to go outside in <em>his</em> city.  The single-eye scar on his wrist burned.</p><p>He hadn’t made it far before Angua passed him in werewolf form.  Carrot caught up with him shortly, carrying Angua’s armor in a sack, and wearing a loaf of bread strapped to his arm.</p><p>Vimes blinked.</p><p>Carrot said, noticing, “‘Raving Mad’ Halberd – you know, the battle-bread baker in the Street of Cunning Artificers? – made it.  Boomerang and buckler in one.  He’s calling it the battle-baguette.  This is the only one; he had to use special grain out of Howondaland and couldn’t get much.  I thought it might stop the stick.”</p><p>Vimes figured with Carrot’s arm behind it, it could probably stop an elephant, but before he could say so, Angua found them, growling and shaking her head.  Carrot sighed and handed over the armor sack; Angua disappeared with it.</p><p>They arrived at the Temple to find Hughnon Ridcully, High Priest of Blind Io, tight-lipped with anger.  “<em>This</em> one kept going after left foot and right foot.  Made them go through it with their hands, their heads, their, er, posteriors – finished with them mooning the temple!”</p><p>It might have been funny, under other circumstances.  “Any well-aimed lightning strikes?”</p><p>“No,” said the High Priest grimly.  “I prayed for Him not to.  The dancers didn’t deserve it, and with His vision … er …”  He coughed and lowered his voice.  “He can’t hit the broad side of a temple.  I keep trying to get Him to practice, ‘if bats can do it, You can do it’ I tell Him, but … He’s very sensitive about it …”  He cleared his throat.  “The bearer <em>sang</em>.  ‘And you do the Hoki pokey and you turn yourself around … that’s what it’s all about.’”  At Vimes’ blank look, he continued, “Sacred hymn of Hoki. Old Ramtops god, likes to poke what ought to be left unpoked.  Like this stick-bearer.  He only let his victims go – <em>ten!</em> at once! – when he saw the carving of the seventy sacred hammers.  Started yelling.  ‘Oh come on, even for <em>you</em> seventy is a bit much!’”</p><p>Angua reappeared, yanking her last buckle tight.  “Sorry, Commander,” she said.  “He was gone by the time I got here.  All I could smell was wood and cabbages – and beets, and possibly turnips – but it’s Flatulus’s feast day and a lot of people are celebrating the, er, traditional way.”</p><p>Vimes sighed.  “Cabbage beer, cabbage onna stick and cabbage sausage?  Thank you, Captain von Überwald, I’d nearly managed to forget.  Back to the Watch House, then, but I want officers stationed around the city with an eye on the nearest clacks tower.  We’ll catch him yet.  Lipwig should be back.  Time for him to earn his loose leash.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>The thing about dancing is, people think it’s silly.  Frivolous.  A little surface nothing, wiggle this, shake that, the music ends and it’s done.</p><p>They’re wrong.</p><p>So you have a stick that can make people put their left foot in, put their left foot out, put their left foot in and shake it all about.  That’s nice.  Look how powerful you are!</p><p>Puny human.</p><p>Think like a god, and see deeper: dance is intention and emotion and soul expressed in movement.  It’s ecstasy, it’s solemnity, it’s grief and rage and yearning.  It’s discipline and it’s letting go.  It’s worship.</p><p>Change the steps of the dance.  Change its rhythm, its timing, give it new movement, new music.  Burden it with glorious purpose: yours.  Work your way in.  Their bodies will tell them what they think and how they feel; their minds are just along for the ride, tourists who’ll make up stories about it afterwards.</p><p>Make them do the Hoki pokey.  Watch them turn themselves around.</p><p><em>That’s</em> what it’s all about.</p><p>* * *</p><p>“Nothing since the temple mooning?” Moist said, staring at the map.</p><p>The Librarian shook his head.  “Oook,” he offered.</p><p>Moist snorted.  “That’s for sure.”  He looked up as Commander Vimes came in.</p><p>“What does the bearer want and what is he planning?”</p><p>“Power and how to get it,” said Moist confidently.  “The kind of person who makes strangers moon the temple of a major god just because he can doesn’t stop there.  He’s a full-tilt diva.”  Something in his brain tried to get his attention.</p><p>Vimes’s eyebrow clearly said, <em>Spoken like one who knows</em>.  “So Vetinari is the end target?”</p><p>Moist let his self-deprecating smile reply, <em>Oh no, if there were any mooning to be done I’d do it myself</em>.  “Humiliating Vetinari sufficiently might create a power vacuum, but the stick-bearer wouldn’t be the one to fill it unless he had some other source of –”  The thing in his brain jumped up and down, waving its arms around and shouting.  He said slowly, “Some other source of power, that the aristocrats and guilds can’t deny or defy.”</p><p>Vimes said shrewdly, “You know the Device and the Umnian golems are secure, and the wizards won’t give anything up, unless the bearer offers extra dessert.  You’re worried about something else.”</p><p>Moist frowned.  Hubert, giving a preliminary report on the blue cube, had been torn whether to hide under the table or cackle until the entire bank echoed.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>  Ponder Stibbons had said the cube’s “thaumic signature,” whatever that was, was “unprecedented.”   The thing about a large signature was, it could be read from far away.</p><p>“I found a … thing … in Überwald.”</p><p>When Moist had explained, Vimes grunted.  “<em>You</em> may plan only to power this suit-contraption, but it’s a given some idiot will decide Phase Two needs to be weapons design.”  He scowled.  “Not in <em>my</em> city.  Mr. Lipwig, you can have extra Watch officers around the bank or inside it, but one way or another you will have them.”</p><p>“Outside, to start with,” said Moist absently.  “People like to feel their money’s secure but they don’t want the Watch staring at them while they deal with it.  Your officers would spend all their time wiping their boots to keep Gladys happy anyway.”  There was no need to discuss <em>not</em> keeping Gladys happy.  A two-ton golem with glowing red eyes is not, if unhappy, ignorable.</p><p>“I’m taking officers over there now,” said Vimes.  “I want to see this thing myself.”</p><p>“I’ll give you a note for Mr. Bent,” Moist said.</p><p>“You’re not coming?”</p><p>“I’m going to see Dick Simnel.  This stick-bearer will try to surprise us; I want to surprise him.  Dick’s probably improved the suit just since I brought it back, even without its new power source.”</p><p>Vimes looked him up and down warily. “Neither you nor Mr. Simnel seem the type,” he said, “but reassure me: tell me he’s not putting weapons on it.”  Then, as though wanting to get the bad news over with:  “<em>Could</em> you, say, fire a crossbow from it?”</p><p>“Uh,” said Moist.  “Have you ever seen a balloon blown up and then let go?”</p><p>Vimes’s eyebrow said, <em>Go on</em>…</p><p>“Flying in the suit is like being a balloon with four holes in it.  On a good day, I get somewhere without bashing my head.  On a really good day, it’s where I meant to go.  Now imagine what happens to the balloon if two of the holes start trying to control a crossbow.”</p><p>“Oook,” said the Librarian, with a gesture that illustrated a little too vividly for Moist’s comfort.</p><p>“If you’re lucky,” he agreed, trying not to think about steam burns.</p><p>Vimes relaxed enough to almost crack a smile.  “You have to admit it’d be surprising.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Loki stood across the street from the Royal Bank of Ankh-Morpork, considering.  The fear, annoyance and admiration he’d garnered since gaining the stick left him flush with power, enough to feel the Tesseract’s energy from halfway across the city.  From this close, it thrummed under his skin like his own heartbeat.  He didn’t fancy using it as a portal again with no iridium to stabilize it; the primitive vehicles available here might not let him escape another giant implosion.</p><p>He turned the stick restlessly around and around, making himself think about the other problem.  He’d been aghast and then outraged to find a temple to what could only be a confused memory of his fa- of Odin and Thor.  When had they been here?  Did they still remember this place or monitor it, might they come back?  Losing his temper had been satisfying (Thor was insufferable enough with <em>one</em> hammer), but if there was still a link he couldn’t afford anything else that might draw their attention.</p><p>Well.  Anyone could walk into a bank.</p><p>He studied the people going in and out.  Who would escape notice?  Who would command obedience?  Who would – who were those people in beat-up armor, with badges?  He frowned.  If Authority was taking an interest, he’d best make his move.</p><p>Someone harmless-looking, then.  A deeper disguise than mere illusion; he’d been itching for a change anyway.</p><p>Loki smiled and closed his eyes.  When she opened them, she was still smiling.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Tiffany had been on her way back to Mrs. Proust’s from the Royal Art Museum – “an education you won’t find at home,” Miss Tick had said, “and Art shouldn’t be only for the rich”<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> – when she spotted the pickpocket from the train.  He was staring at the bank intently, and then – <em>See this</em>, her First Sight insisted, <em>it really happened</em> – <strong>she</strong> went in.</p><p>Tiffany frowned.  This wasn’t her territory, and if she approached the bank it was even odds whether the Nac Mac Feegle would try to fight the Watch officers stationed outside or rob the bank themselves.  It was hardly a crime to wish to be someone else, only unusual to be able to do so, though Tiffany had recognized the look on his/her face: that of a Nac Mac Feegle pondering ships and coo-beasties, proper redistribution thereof, writ large.  Oddly, there had even briefly been a similar blue undertone.</p><p>Her Second Thoughts butted in.  <em>What else did you notice?</em></p><p>Power.  It had been there at the train yard, just the slightest itch on her skin.  But he/she had more now, and Mrs. Proust had mentioned a stick like the one he/she was carrying, that made people dance.</p><p>Tiffany shook off the memory of dancing beyond her control in the drome’s world.  Her feet itched to stride after the woman, and her hands for a cast-iron frying pan.  But this wasn’t the Chalk.  She wasn’t the only one who could act, and Mrs. Proust was not to be disrespected on her own turf.  Informed, though: that was only courtesy.</p><p>Tiffany headed back to the Boffo Joke Emporium in a thoughtful mood.<br/>
</p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> He’d compromised by cackling under the table until Igor hauled him out and pounded on his back.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> The Nac Mac Feegle had strutted in as though they owned the place, or planned to.  Tiffany supposed it made sense – after all, they were woaded.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>WEEKS I have been hinting at and waiting to finish landing that hokey pokey joke.  :)  (It’s pretty culturally specific even within the English-speaking world; if you’re not familiar with “You put your [left/right/whole] [body part] in, you put your [same thing] out, you put your [same thing] in and you shake it all about, and you do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself around – that’s what it’s all about!” or know it by another name, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hokey_cokey">here’s</a> more about its history and variants than anyone needs to know.  Listen to it at your own risk…)</p><p>I took a few liberties with the Marauders’ Map … or perhaps it’s just never been spoken to in-canon by a wizard who knew what s/he was about.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Day 4, part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Loki wins no friends, but influences people; Commander Vimes develops strong feelings about ladders; and Captain von Überwald discovers the laundry habits of wizards.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>There are a few phrases of Welsh (all via Google Translate, help me out if you know better) and one of "Welsh."  Translations in the end note.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Angua followed Commander Vimes through the bank lobby, wincing at the overwhelming scent of brass polish.  “If this cube does what Lipwig says, it could be a powerful weapon.  Should we clear the bank?”</p><p>Vimes grimaced.  “Let’s not risk – yet – creating the appearance of panic,” he said, “but walk around and make a plan.”</p><p>Angua jerked her head at Cheery and Coalthon.  “You two, with me.  We’ll go top to bottom.”  As they headed for the stairs, she glanced around the lobby.  Mr. Bent was high-stepping towards Commander Vimes.  People in the single long queue shuffled slowly but steadily forwards: a young troll father with his pebbles, an elderly dwarf, a laughing gnome couple, a middle-aged human woman leaning on a cane and nervously clutching a lumpy sock.  Probably her life savings; probably the first time she’d been in a bank.  Nothing out of the ordinary.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The authority figure in the most beat-up armor and the man in the pinstripe suit and enormous shoes had taken an unmarked door in the far corner of the lobby.  Loki waited one minute to let them move on and give the other armored figures time to move up a floor or two, then muttered “Blasted tiny bladder” to vaguely excuse leaving the line.  She hobbled slowly until she entered the ladies’ restroom.  Finding it empty, she immediately straightened, gave herself the conservatively professional dress of a bank employee and the stick the look of a slide rule, and stepped briskly back out, striding to the unmarked door as though she had every right.  No one stopped her.</p><p>Beyond the door, stairs descended.  She clattered down, projecting careless confidence.</p><p>The undercroft of the bank had lovely arched ceilings.  In one corner, a monstrously beautiful contraption in blown glass, full of valves and pipes and beakers, twisted together in near-organic complexity.  Three small furnaces sat near a fireplace.  Counters and shelves were covered with meticulously organized tools.  A colander, a set of enormous alligator clips, and a jar with an inexplicably frenetic turnip decorated the mantelpiece.</p><p>If she hadn’t had another purpose, a thrown rock or a liter of something interestingly gummy might have tempted her.  Perhaps later.  But she could feel the Tesseract beating behind a particular door.</p><p>She paused outside it to listen.</p><p>“Is there anything we know for certain?”  That sounded like Authority.</p><p>“The cube is … behaving.”</p><p>“Is that supposed to be funny?”</p><p>“No.  I … I … I know the people all want to hear my theory, but –”  The voice lowered nervously, confessing a shameful secret.  “I don’t actually <em>have</em> a theory yet.  I am constructing a small model – all that will fit in here, I’m afraid – along the lines of the Glooper, but it’s not complete.”</p><p>Probably only Loki heard a voice much nearer the door mutter very quietly, “<strong><em>I</em></strong> am conthtructing it.  Even an ekthpert can only blow glath tho fatht.”</p><p>A new voice said, “We could speed the process considerably with Hex.”</p><p>Authority, Nervous and a voice that had to belong to Pinstripe-Big-Shoes all said, “No.”</p><p>Over Nervous’s muttered “It’s <em>my</em> model,” Authority said, “This stays here, and you’re not going to tell Hex or your students about it.  Can’t see where <em>any</em> of them keep their brains, frankly.”</p><p>Five, then.  She’d best move before they made plans.  A grand entrance, an absurd proclamation to buy herself a few seconds of confusion, and then a fight.  It was shaping up to be a lovely day indeed.</p><p>She let the stick resume its full length, then banged open the door with sufficient force to hit the lurker behind it – another impact as they hit the wall, followed by a heartfelt “<em>Outth</em>.”  A man in a pointy hat and robes stood next-nearest; she whacked him in the chest with the stick before he could move, but willed him only to stand still for the moment.  “Teatime!” she announced cheerfully. “I brought the ducks!”</p><p>A quick glance showed a crowded vault containing the Tesseract in its battered case on a desk, surrounded by wires and tools.  A smaller, simpler replica of the glass thing in the main room took up most of the space, with a short ladder next to it allowing access to the upper portions.</p><p>A man with shocking-red hair sticking straight up, until shaved off perfectly level six inches above his head, stared at her in affronted confusion.  “Ducks?  They do <em>not</em> fit in this model - I considered most carefully!”  Nervous’s voice: he could be ignored for the moment.</p><p>The man in beat-up armor was already moving, placing himself between her and the Tesseract and drawing a small crossbow.  She took a quick step towards Pinstripes, figuring Authority wouldn’t risk shooting him.  The lurker behind the door, groaning, ran for it, but that was all right.  Let word get out.</p><p>“That’s mine,” she said conversationally to Authority.</p><p>He frowned.  “Ma’am, please put down the stick.  Who are you and what proofs of ownership can you show – of the stick or of this?”</p><p>Loki wasn’t about to be questioned by this mortal.  She stepped forward, raising the stick.  He fired just as she felt a swift movement of air behind her.  She dodged, reaching out left-handed to grab the crossbow bolt and fling it contemptuously to the ground, then turned smoothly to grab the ladder as Pinstripes tried to bring it down over her.</p><p>“You have heart,” she said to him, bringing the stick to his chest.</p><p>“I prefer to think I have brain,” he said coldly, then fell silent at her will.</p><p>She turned to keep an eye on Authority, who had reloaded his crossbow but not moved otherwise.  She glanced at Nervous.  “You are this world's expert on the Tesseract?” she demanded.</p><p>“The cube?  I – I suppose I am,” he said, fear warring with pride.</p><p>“Then you may be useful,” she said, and stepped forward –</p><p>Clang!  The colander was brought down forcefully onto her head as an angry voice hissed in her ear, “Mathter ith <em>mine</em>.”  Momentarily stunned, she heard something sloshing as a solid container thunked onto the desk.  “Thir Thamuel – attatth thith clip thtraight to the turnip!”</p><p>By the time he grabbed her, trying to wrestle some connection with the colander, she was ready.  She head-butted him in the face with the colander as a helmet, then clenched a fistful of his shirt as he staggered back.  “You have heart too,” she growled, and something about that phrase –</p><p>“Theveral,” he spat defiantly, and that was it, she was done with this nonsense; with one swift gesture, she cracked him across the chest with the stick and continued on to smite Nervous.  They were all hers now, except –</p><p>Authority was trying to sneak out the door with the Tesseract in its case.</p><p>“Please don’t,” she said, sarcastic in her courtesy.  “I still need that.”</p><p>“This doesn’t have to get any messier,” he said, still moving backwards.</p><p>“Of course it does.  I've come too far for anything else.  I am Loki –”</p><p>“Shaved off the fur and slid a few letters down the alphabet, did you?”</p><p>What.  No.  She would <em>not</em> put up with this.  She willed the pointy-hatted one to attack, which he did, ineffectually, but Authority was trying not to injure him.  When she willed Pinstripes to join in, Authority got the idea and fought back harder, but Pinstripes effortlessly tangled him in the ladder and left him lying on the floor.</p><p>To her surprise, Pointy-Hat managed to speak to her.  “What <em>is</em> it?” he asked, staring at the cube’s case as Pinstripes smoothly picked it up.</p><p>What could these mortals do with the knowledge even if they had it?  “A portal,” she said carelessly.  “Among other things.”</p><p>Pointy-Hat’s eyes widened.  “Like the one to the dragons?” he breathed.</p><p>Dragons?</p><p>She’d planned to leave Pointy-Hat here, but perhaps he had something to offer.  She’d explore it at leisure later.  For now, she swept disdainfully past Authority, and her new minions followed.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Angua re-emerged into the lobby with the conviction that a bank was an excellent place not to need to evacuate rapidly.  It was built for keeping things <em>in</em>.  She sighed and headed for the door to the vaults, dismissing Cheery and Coalthon to join the outside Watch.  Vimes would want a timely report even if he didn’t like its conclusions.</p><p>The door opened as she neared it.  Mr. Bent stepped out, followed by the previous bank chair’s nephew and his Igor, who almost never left the basement, Ponder Stibbons, and a bank employee she didn’t recognize but whose small smile she didn’t like.</p><p>“Mr. Bent,” she acknowledged courteously, “Ma’am, gentlemen.”</p><p>The woman looked her up and down, still with that tiny smile, then deigned to nod slightly.  The others nodded in silent unison.</p><p>Angua hid a frown.  The brass polish fumes were giving her a headache, overpowering enough to drown out everything except the scent of wood from all the ornate paneling.  “Is Commander Vimes still downstairs, Mr. Bent?”</p><p>The pause before he replied was just barely too long.  “Yes, Captain.”</p><p>“Thank you.  Everything all right?”</p><p>His nod was too stiff, even for him.  “If you’ll excuse us, Captain.  Bank business.”  He and the others turned to head across the lobby.  The woman strode with fluid confidence, flipping a slide rule in one hand, while the others moved with more disconcerting similarity.  Mr. Bent, not taking his usual high steps, tripped and barely recovered; they all slowed.</p><p>Angua let her frown show and headed downstairs more quickly than she might have otherwise.  She sighed in relief as the brass polish fumes receded, replaced by the scents of damp underground stone, furnaces, the people she’d just passed, whatever the nephew put in his hair to make it stick up like that, wood, cabbage, beets, a distinct waft of brine-soaked turnip –</p><p>She stopped.  That combination –</p><p>The walls were stone.  The stairs were stone.  There was no wood.</p><p>Mr. Bent had been carrying a briefcase, as any banker might, but it had been badly dented and scuffed, which he would never tolerate.</p><p>Mr. Bent might legitimately leave the bank on business a few minutes before the end of banking hours, but to do so without the day’s-end fine adjustment of the main clock?</p><p>Mr. Bent, <em>tripping</em>?</p><p>She leapt down the stairs.  She didn’t smell blood –</p><p>She stopped when she heard footsteps coming up.  It wasn’t Vimes’s usual tread, and his ragged breathing spoke of injuries, but if he was well enough to climb stairs however poorly then her duty lay in the chase.  “I’ll catch them,” she called down.  “Bring my armor.”  She didn’t wait for his grunt of assent, but timed her transformation with the skill of long practice to let herself open the door in the last moment before the wolf took over.</p><p>* * *</p><p>The turnip scent didn’t make it out of the stairwell, and the aromas of cabbage and beets were everywhere in the street as revelers honored Flatulus.  But the hair goo had a lingering odor of turpentine and oranges.  Angua followed it swiftly until, some distance ahead, she saw the little group enter one of the many carriages for hire.  This one was open; the woman and Mr. Bent sat facing backwards, while the other three crowded onto the forward-facing bench.  The woman was still flipping her slide rule, except that between one rotation and the next it had somehow become a longer stick.  She reached back and tapped the driver with it; he held both arms forward and shook them all about.  The horses bolted.</p><p>Angua growled and launched herself into a run.  Upper Broadway was thickly crowded with carts heading to or from the Hubwards Gate, workers headed home, and revelers headed out.  She leapt over a dwarf child, ducked under a horse, ran nearly sideways to escape an irritated ox, and ricocheted off the wall of the Royal Art Museum to avoid the line waiting to see the newly restored <em>Man with Big Fig Leaf</em>.  The carriage horses wanted to run, but the twisted path they were having to follow left the carriage rocking dangerously behind them, and pedestrians and other traffic trying to scatter.</p><p>That had to be <em>the</em> stick.  Thank all the small gods she wasn’t a dog.  She wouldn’t have to fight any urges to gnaw on it or wrestle with it.</p><p>She did have to fight the wolf mind.  It said <em>prey</em> and <em>hunt</em> and had no focus to spare for nuances.  Words were leaving her, pushed out by scent, the slide of her muscles, the scrape of her claws against the street.  <em>Trap</em>, she thought, <em>the stick is a trap.  Hunt <strong>with the pack</strong></em>.  Cheery and Coalthon would tell Vimes which way she’d gone, and Vimes would clacks Pseudopolis Yard; if the carriage kept going down Upper Broad Way, they’d meet officers coming in response to his summons.</p><p>She knew the rhythm and geometry of a hunt, even without words.  The carriage wouldn’t risk going by the Patrician’s Palace or nearer the Yard.  The prey would bolt sideways and go to ground somewhere, probably in the Shades.  She was ready when the carriage suddenly careened left onto the Street of Small Gods.  She scrambled up and over a cart of goats, leaving terrified noises and terrifying smells in her wake.</p><p>She’d gotten within a cart-length of the carriage, but at the cost of drawing their attention.  The woman gestured at her viciously with the stick, as though trying to poke her from so far away, then glared at it and said something short and undoubtedly pithy.  She reached for the battered briefcase Bent held, then hesitated and glanced at the buildings.  They’d passed the Temples of Fate and Seven-Handed Sek and almost reached Blind Io’s.  The woman glared at the approaching temple, then sat back and spoke sharply to Bent.</p><p>Bent handed the woman the briefcase and stood, keeping his balance easily despite the swaying of the carriage.  Damn.  There went Angua’s hope of getting her teeth on the briefcase handle.  New prey: at least yank one of the other three backwards out of the carriage.  Stibbons was the scrawniest (and probably, the remaining wisp of her human mind knew, also the most dangerous to have under the control of the stick).  Angua put on a burst of speed and prepared to leap.</p><p>Bent looked momentarily at a loss as he glanced about the carriage, but as Angua sprang, Bent smoothly grabbed the wizard’s pointy hat and slung it at her face, angling it perfectly to catch her as though she’d stuck her entire head in a muzzle.  Scents of sweat-damp felt and unwashed hair assaulted her nose, and the brim blinded her forward view.  She crashed into the back of the carriage, scrabbling against its smooth wood, then pushed herself backwards instantly, knowing the stick would be jabbed at her.  She landed hard on the cobbles, shaking her head sharply to send the hat flying.</p><p>The carriage had regained distance on her, and she panted as she dashed after it again.  The horses had to be near exhaustion.  She could smell their sweat and fear.  Where was the rest of her pack?</p><p>Bent had removed his suit-jacket and stood ready to use it as a blind or a garrote; the woman held the stick; Stibbons, even without his hat or staff, was gesturing purposefully.  She could catch them, but she was outmatched.</p><p>The horses, then.  She shot past the carriage-body, dodging a swipe of the stick, and leapt onto the nearer horse, turning to land backwards on its hindquarters to snarl into the driver’s face.  He flinched in terror, but didn’t try to stop the carriage or escape.  The horses, having no compulsion to counteract their own fear, achieved the last heights of panic with her so close.  Screaming, they tripped and went down, and she was thrown straight into the path of a heavy wagon rumbling through the intersection with Short Street.  Her hindquarters crunched and she screamed in turn.  The carriage crashed into the fallen horses and began to tumble, but there was a flash of blue light, and the carriage simply … stopped.</p><p>She panted in pain, struggling to pull herself up, but her hind legs would not obey.  The noises of street traffic, injured animals, and people shouting were at once overwhelming and far away.  Things shook as carts traveling too fast piled up, unable to stop in time.  The noise of a few people approaching her should not have stood out, but one was tapping a walking stick.</p><p>Someone crouched down near her head.  “Now <em>you</em> have heart,” a woman’s voice murmured.  “You remind me of my son.  He’s much bigger, of course.”</p><p>“The Watch have a werewolf,” said another voice, which her human memories associated with the large-footed man.</p><p>“Varúlfur,” the woman murmured.  “I thought I saw more to you … pity you can’t walk.  I could use you.  You four – carry her.  She won’t fight.”  In her fading vision, Angua saw the stick descending.</p><p>“Your pardon, my lady,” said the red-headed one who smelled of, of, things she couldn’t find the words for, sharp and odd and unforgettable.  “My model suggests it is more urgent to bring the cube to a place of secret safety than to acquire an injured dog too heavy to move quickly.”</p><p>A reluctant sigh.  The woman straightened up.  “Indeed.”  Their footsteps faded, and no sounds replaced them.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Vimes hauled himself up the stairs, trying to walk off bruises and shake out strains as he went.  Damn battle-clowns.  He was going to have a word with Vetinari and Dr. Whiteface about classifying ladders as weapons, he’d nearly dislocated his hip getting free.</p><p>Hmm.  Bent could have made it impossible for Vimes to free himself.  Perhaps Loki’s control wasn’t absolute.</p><p>He stooped to snare Angua’s discarded armor, unable to suppress a wince and a groan, then pushed through the door into the lobby.  Cheery and Coalthon saw him immediately and hastened over.</p><p>“The’th after them along Broad Way, thir,” Coalthon reported.  “I thent Vithit to clacth the Yard for reinforthmentth.”</p><p>“Corporal Swires is up on his latest buzzard,” Cheery added.  “I told him recon only, he’s not to be seen or to interfere.”</p><p>Vimes nodded.  “We need to know where they are too badly to risk him getting taken over.”  He handed Angua’s armor to Cheery and, irritated at the need but refusing to show it, took Coalthon’s arm to hobble more quickly outside.  He scowled at the jam that called itself traffic.  He hadn’t wanted it to come to this, but no carriage would be able to catch up.  “Where’s Lance-Corporal Cerrig?”</p><p>Cheery raised an eyebrow but wasted no time gesturing to one of the Watch on outside duty.  “Right here, sir.  Figured she likes numbers so much, she might as well guard some.”</p><p>A tall, cheerful human with long red braids and a beautifully detailed trilithon tattoo on her bicep<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> practically skipped over.  “Yes, Sergeant?”  Cheery jerked her head at Vimes.  “Yes, Commander?”</p><p>Vimes shut his eyes for a moment.  Was he really – “Have you got your runesticks, Lance-Corporal?”</p><p>Her eyes widened.  “Yes, sir!”</p><p>“And has anyone got a crowbar?”</p><p>“Alwayth, thir.”</p><p>Vimes sighed.  “All right.  One of those marble benches, Lance-Corporal?  It needs to hold you and me –”</p><p>“And me,” Cheery and Coalthon said firmly in unison.  They looked at each other.</p><p>“Sergeant Littlebottom for preference, please,” Lance-Corporal Cerrig said.  “That bench isn’t very big and the stabilizer runes are the trickiest part.”</p><p>Coalthon nodded in acquiescence and set about prying the bench up from its foundation.  Lance-Corporal Cerrig, frowning in concentration, laid her runesticks in careful patterns, leaving barely enough room for the three passengers.</p><p>Vimes, staring down Broad Way, thought the level of crashing and chaos seemed elevated some distance away.  He asked, trying not to fidget, “Is all of this necessary, Lance-Corporal?”</p><p>She shot him a glance that tried to be annoyed, couldn’t quite manage it over the glee of long-denied permission granted, yet still managed to be firm.  “Commander, I’m having to modify things on the fly here.  I’ve combined the <em>craig yn hedfan</em> and <em>hwyrll y byrdd</em> runes for lack of space, but I don’t dare skimp on <em>rwy'n mawr obeithio na fyddwn ni'n damwain ac yn marw</em>.  Almost done – there.  Don’t knock anything out of place.”</p><p>They sat carefully on the bench, which rose shakily into the air.  Cerrig minutely adjusted the angle of a runestick, and they headed along Broad Way.  The normal level of shouting to be found on any street in the city, leavened with the occasional scream, increased as they were spotted.  Vimes gritted his teeth.  “Promise me we’re not going to crash and kill people,” he grated, “and I’ll promise you Vetinari will make sure no other idiot tries this.”</p><p>Cerrig smiled grimly.  “I’ll promise you I can put a <em>hunanddinistriol-ddiflannu</em> rune down in five seconds with my eyes shut if you’ll promise not to ask me why.  We won’t – we won’t kill people.”</p><p>Vimes noted the omission and chose not to ask what a hunamumble rune did.  He spotted a buzzard high above and lifted his arm to it.  Corporal Swires descended rapidly, shouting, “They’re headed rimwards along Small Gods.  Cut a few degrees widdershins and you might cut them off at the intersection with Short if you can speed up.  How fast does that thing corner?”</p><p>“I plan not to find out!” Cerrig yelled back, twisting the steering runestick gently.  “Sir, we’ve got a problem.  I’ve got enough space left for one more rune.  I can do an <em>ewch yn gyflymach</em> or an – I can make it go faster or slower,” she amended, “but I can’t do both.”</p><p>“They’re probably trying to go to ground in the Shades,” Cheery offered.  “Straight down Small Gods to Turn-Again and over to Five-Ways, do you think?  It’s the fastest route.”</p><p>Vimes thought about the kind of mind that declaimed about teatime and ducks.  “No.  Too direct.  They’ll head for the river and cut across to Easy Street.  Make us go faster and get us headed turnwise along Short Street.  Cheery and I will drop on them and you can crash this thing in the Ankh.  Don’t use that – that rune unless you have to.”</p><p>Cheery put a hand on Cerrig’s shoulder.  “It’ll be all right, Gyrrwr,” she said.  “You’ll survive, just get out of the river as fast as you can and get someone to dump water on you.”</p><p>Cerrig drew a deep breath, then rapidly lay down a final rune in the tiny remaining space.  The bench shot forward, and she twisted the steering runestick.  “Hold on!”  Artificers’ workshops slid rapidly below them, then the back lots of temples.  The acolytes of Seven-Handed Sek were dealing with another algal bloom in the squid pond, Vimes noted absently, amazed how much he could see from up here.  Sergeant Detritus and Lance-Constable Bluejohn were working their way across Contract Bridge, but traffic was against them and even their bellows were only clearing it slowly.</p><p>The bench tilted gently, then righted as they aligned with Short Street.  Vimes heard Cheery gasp and followed her pointing finger to where Angua, crouched atop a panicking carriage-horse, was snarling at the driver.  They saw the crash coming, saw that Loki knew how to use the cube, saw the little group approach Angua.</p><p>Vimes pulled out his crossbow, but the scrum of people and animals below was too tightly packed.  He growled, “Bring us down, Cerrig.  Cheery, we’ll –”</p><p>Loki, turning away from Angua, looked up and saw them.  She grabbed the briefcase and stretched the stick towards them.  Everything flashed blue.  There was a tiny clattering of displaced runesticks.</p><p>The bench tumbled madly, dropping like a – like a marble bench.  Vimes, hanging on, heard Cerrig snarl, “Blue-screen <em>me</em>, will you?  Think you’re up against a hunt-and-peck runist?”  He heard her rearranging sticks so fast it was all a blur of tapping, then she stomped hard with her booted foot – once, twice.  The bench righted itself with a jerk and their vision cleared.</p><p>“We’re still going to crash, Commander,” Cerrig warned.  “She corrupted the stabilizer runes – made their runesticks grow into the bench to fragment it – I don’t know how she got root access.  I can only hold it together long enough to reach the river.”</p><p>“Detritus and Bluejohn will get Angua,” said Vimes. “When we get out of this, spread the word: everyone else goes after the briefcase.”</p><p>There wasn’t time for more.  The surface of the Ankh was softer than cobblestones, but the landing was still brutal.  They leapt off the bench at the last moment, struggled to the surface with eyes and mouths tightly shut, and found one another by following the noises of spitting and frantic shucking of armor.  Vimes took stock of his refreshed supply of bruises and strains and let Cerrig and Cheery help him ashore.  For tonight, at least, he was benched.</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> She was rightfully proud: she druid herself.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <table>
<tbody>
<tr>
<th>Rune name</th>
<th>English</th>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><em>craig yn hedfan</em></td>
<td>flying rock</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><em>hwyrll y byrdd</em></td>
<td>Read it aloud with English pronunciation.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><em>Rwy'n mawr obeithio na fyddwn ni'n damwain ac yn marw</em></td>
<td>I really hope we do not crash and die.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><em>hunanddinistriol-ddiflannu</em></td>
<td>self-destruct/disappear</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td><em>ewch yn gyflymach</em></td>
<td>go faster</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Day 5, part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Vetinari tyrants properly; Loki does not yet perceive the cat; and dragons are not stupid.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This time the conference room held not only Lord Vetinari, Lord Rust and Lady Selachii, but also Dr. Whiteface of the Fools’ Guild, Mr. Boggis for the Thieves, and Dr. Eureka Hatter of the Guild of Mad Scientists and Insane Inventors.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a>   Vimes decided to remain standing, the better to leave before saying what he expected to be on his mind.  He reported the previous day’s events as dispassionately as he could.</p><p>He’d barely finished noting Angua’s anticipated recovery when Lady Selachii snapped, “This is out of line, Commander. You're dealing with forces you can't control.”</p><p>“Have you ever tried to move on the streets during rush hour, my lady?  After a multi-wagon accident?  Did you feel an overabundance of control?”</p><p>“Speaking of control,” Vetinari said, steepling his fingertips, “I have invited you here, Dr. Whiteface, Mr. Boggis, Dr. Hatter, to join Lord Rust and Lady Selachii in forming an advisory body – the Ankh-Morpork Security Council, let us call it – for the purpose of assisting in oversight during the current emergency.  The relevance of your expertise made you the obvious choices.”</p><p>Lord Rust’s face, Vimes noted, was a study.  Lady Selachii’s, by contrast, was more a bedroom door after midnight: firmly closed, but with the suggestion of interesting things going on behind it.</p><p>“Indeed,” she said.  “The city, my lord, must <em>work</em>.”</p><p><em>For whom?</em> Vimes thought, but Vetinari spoke first.</p><p>“Quite so, Precaria.  To that end, I spoke to Archpriest Ridcully, who assures me that the gods have not declared war on us, and we should leave them out of it.  They are a blunt instrument in any case; we need a scalpel.”</p><p>“Then why isn’t Downey here?”</p><p>“Though I generally delegate such work, Precaria, in this instance I shall serve as my own.  Lord Downey will act for the good of the Assassins’ Guild first; would you like them to obtain either of the items this Loki controls?”</p><p>Lady Selachii paused only briefly before rallying.  “You’ll be too busy gallivanting about assassinning to tyrant properly.”</p><p>Vetinari appeared ever so faintly confused.  “I was under the impression that you already believed I was not tyranting, as you say, properly.  Do you need me to demonstrate my skills?”  As Lady Selachii puffed up to reply sharply, Vetinari waved a hand gently, dismissing the question from discussion – though not, Vimes was sure, from anyone’s mind.  “No, no, forgive me for asking.  I shall, indeed, be somewhat occupied with this grave threat to our fair city.  I hoped that in this time of trial I could prevail upon you, my lords and ladies, to offer your services.”</p><p>Lady Selachii glanced around the table, clearly counting votes and coming up short.  On the other hand, there are those for whom the closer one inches to that indefinable, fractal border of power, the more strangely attractive it becomes.  She glanced at Lord Rust.</p><p>“Of course, any of you are free to decline,” Lord Vetinari added smoothly.  “Mr. Frostrip of the Guild of Accountants and Usurers is quite … twisted out of shape on behalf of Mr. Bent, and the Guild of Ecdysiasts, Nautchers, Cancanieres and Exponents of Exotic Dance have registered very strong feelings about the stick.  I could certainly find a replacement.”</p><p>“<em>Do</em> take your … your sabbatical, Havelock,” Lady Selachii said, patting his hand, then turned to Vimes.  “Now, Commander, clearly this could have been prevented had the Watch stopped this – miscreant – prior to her entry to the bank.  Perhaps by noticing that she was carrying a stick.”  She smiled pointedly.  “Now you’ll have to add ‘briefcase’ to the list of items for which people can be stopped.”</p><p>The essential thing, Vimes told himself, was to get out of there before they worded any orders more carefully.  He bowed stiffly.  “Officers will be informed of their duties and assigned in the most efficient manner possible.  I should –”</p><p>“Yes, yes, go,” Lady Selachii said, waving her hand dismissively.  “Havelock, be sure to let us know how your efforts are progressing, will you?”</p><p>“Of course, Precaria.  I trust in the meantime you’ll be rewarded as you deserve for stepping up.”</p><p>The doors closed behind them.  Vetinari’s small smile hadn’t wavered once.  He turned to Vimes.  “I do not intend, Commander, to make a habit of leaving my usual duties to others to hunt down miscreants, nor do I suggest any slight to the Watch by doing so in this case.”</p><p>Vimes eyed him sourly.  “The Watch can always use more manp- personpower, sir.  The Chitterling Street station needs janitorial staff.”  He waited until they were outside to add, “And the city needs a government that won’t hamstring the Watch with counterproductive orders, <em>sir</em>.”</p><p>“Ah, Commander, if you ever call me ‘sir’ with no hint of sarcasm I shall immediately clacks Lady Sybil that you are in need of bed rest and hot compresses.  No, I cannot accept your kind offer of employment, though I agree our efforts should be coordinated.  You already have officers of THIELD; I shall be a free agent.  I suggest you recruit others who might not fit into the regular Watch.  Mr. von Lipwig, perhaps, or Mr. Bent, once we retrieve him.  I still treasure his unerring accuracy with a pie nearly as much as Mr. Lipwig’s instinct for altruistic self-preservation.”</p><p>Vimes did not relish the thought of any of them associating with the Watch, but he mustered a nod; Loki had them playing a game of catch-up, although if they played their cards right, possibly they could switch it to Cripple Mr. Onion.  “We’ve got feelers out in the Shades,” he said, “and I’ve asked Mr. Boggis and Queen Molly to quietly let us know anything they hear.  The thieves and beggars prefer not to talk to us directly, of course.”</p><p>“Allow me to pass on, Commander, that the woman who stole the briefcase and the man who presented Blind Io with ten full, if unwaxed, moons are the same person.”</p><p>Vimes blinked.  “Nobby sometimes –”</p><p>Vetinari shook his head.  “I do not presume to know the mind of Corporal Nobbs, Commander, but I am informed this Loki could change her physical self even before obtaining the blue cube.  Her timing is suspect: Rust and Selachii have been plotting this Security Council for months; I know who encourages them, and when and from whence Loki arrived here.  But whoever she is, Loki wields more power, I think, than the person I suspect of sending her here realized.”</p><p>Vimes narrowed his eyes.  “Here’s coordination for you: I don’t have time for political games with that cube and stick loose.  Either could bring down the city.  Together – Loki will have us leading an empire within a year.  Politics is your problem.  Preventing war is mine.”</p><p>Vetinari shrugged.  “The Council were not ready to declare themselves.  They are disorganized and ill-informed; I have kept them that way.  By resigning the board, I have left them to fumble the responsibilities of governance while I assist you in dealing with the real threat.”</p><p>“They’ll muck up the city.  Even with the other three outvoting them.”</p><p>“They will cause harm we can resolve within months.  How long, Commander, do you think it will take the city to recover if Loki is not stopped?”</p><p>Vimes clenched his jaw, then ground out, “See Officer Coalthon for the standard equipment, if you want it, and Nobby if you have any … special needs.”<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a></p><p>* * *</p><p>Some stories thrive on order.  They resist change with every rigid syllable.  If you’re chanting The Saga of Soggy Nikita, you’d better get the rhythm of every stanza just so or there will be Consequences.<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3"><sup>[3]</sup></a></p><p>The kind of story that paints its nails with narrativium gets bored more easily, and likes to play with its characters.  Some play poker, some chess.  Some are marble stories.  Others are more like a cat with a ball of yarn.</p><p>Unnoticed, tiny flakes of narrativium polish chipped off and floated gently where they needed to be.  A few landed on Loki.  Others went … elsewhere.</p><p>* * *</p><p>“So you can do it,” Loki said, just to be sure.  Under her will, Nervous and Pointy-Hat had taken to each other like ducks to non-Ankh water.  After hours of nonstop chatter, glassblowing, and mystic rites, their report was a waterspout of incomprehensible gibberish in hastily cobbled-together magicoscientific pidgin.<a href="#_ftn4" id="_ftnref4" name="_ftnref4"><sup>[4]</sup></a></p><p>“Oh, yes,” said Ponder.  “We’ll need to build the focusing rings out of octiron to actually bring them through.”</p><p>“The Tesseract has told me where to obtain it,” Bent said.</p><p>“Tell me what you need.”</p><p>“A distraction.  And a bakery.”</p><p>“We can talk to them now, with dragonwort for the smudging,” Hubert added.  “I sent Igor for fresh plants.  The Tesseract has shown me what it will take.  It’s more than just foliage – it’s a blooth.”<a href="#_ftn5" id="_ftnref5" name="_ftnref5"><sup>[5]</sup></a></p><p>“Between the dragons and the Tesseract, my lady,” Ponder enthused, “you’ll be able to do – why, anything!  It could power every train and wagon on the Disc!”</p><p>Loki snorted.  “It’s for more than just haulage, it’s –”</p><p>“Crwth,” Bent said, tapping the poster he was holding up for their perusal.  “There’s a concert tonight.  The Watch will be busy with its security.”</p><p>Igor tapped Hubert’s shoulder.  “Dragonwort blothomth, thir.”</p><p>Loki frowned slightly, unsure what had caught her attention, then nodded to Hubert and Ponder.  “The ritual to speak to them, now.  Bent, find what you need at the bakery and be ready to move tonight.”</p><p>Ponder drew a projecting circle on the floor while Hubert fiddled with their controlling model of the Tesseract.  At their nod, Loki stood in the circle while Igor smudged the dragonwort.  A trace of power from the Tesseract, and she was –</p><p>- elsewhere.  But there was nowhere to be that wasn’t dragon.  Loki’s existence was an unwelcome intrusion.</p><p><strong><em>We grow restless</em></strong>, voices all around her hissed and growled and rumbled.  <strong><em>One of our number was called, but since then you ignore us.</em></strong></p><p>“Have a go at yourselves, then,” Loki said, dismissive.  “Or follow me, and I will lead you into glorious battle.”</p><p>
  <strong>
    <em>Battle?  Against the meager might of mortals?</em>
  </strong>
</p><p>Loki’s bones buzzed with the harmonics of that growl.  She shrugged, feeling dragon press against every movement.  “Glorious, not lengthy.  If you’re as formidable as the legends claim.  The dragons I have been shown in Ankh-Morpork are pitiful creatures.”</p><p><strong><em>You question us?</em></strong> roared through him.</p><p>“I was a king, betrayed,” Loki snapped, and something, something was trying to make itself noticed, but it was impossible to think when every breath meant pressing against scales and her skull was still ringing with the dragons’ words.</p><p>There was slithering movement all around her as the dragons ceaselessly strove for whatever dragons crave where nothing else exists.  <strong><em>So now you call down dragons upon your people?</em></strong>  The hissing was viciously amused.  <strong><em>There are stories about kings like you.</em></strong></p><p>“That was elsewhere.  These aren’t my people.  But I will be their king.”</p><p>The scales against her skin turned cold, and the words came to her ears on a wave of frost.  <strong><em>There are stories, too, about those who use dragons to become kings.  We know our role in those stories.  We will not come.</em></strong></p><p>Loki laughed contemptuously.  “Do you know any stories about dragons here, in this place?”  Silence.  “Right.  There aren’t any.  No one fears the dragons here.  No one worships you, or brings you treasure, or marvels at your flight.  No one passes on legends of dragons packed tighter than a tin of sardines and accomplishing just as little.”</p><p>A slight but powerful movement ran all around her, as though a number of very large creatures had attempted to flex wings and claws.  <strong><em>You may begin your fear and worship immediately.  Bring sufficient treasure sufficiently quickly and we will consider granting your request.</em></strong></p><p>Where every hair’s-breadth of space to exist is taken from another, to yield in the slightest is to confess one no longer desires existence.  “I do not threaten,” Loki said silkily, “but until I open the portal, until your force is mine to command, you are but birds.”  There was a weighty silence.  Dragon stares pinned her from all sides.  “Scaled-up, fire-breathing, forgotten, flightless packed-in <em>birds</em>,” she added, and made the gesture that brought her back to the far less weighty stares of Hubert, Ponder, and Igor.</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> The Guild, active throughout Ankh-Morpork’s history, had been established a few years previously, following the construction of a clock which never actually existed.  The Guild Historian does not allow her sources to be audited, lest proof of these conflicting truths cause history to break.  Again.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> It had been less a case of putting Nobby in charge of procurement and more a case of making the truth official.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> More audience approval, for a start.  A chorus about ‘quaffing sesquipedalian plonk at the batrachian hootenanny’ makes for a monumentally, hilariously awful drinking song.  It’s been preserved unchanged for a thousand years solely for its usefulness in hazing apprentice bards.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref4" id="_ftn4" name="_ftn4">[4]</a> “The most famous Discworld pidgin, among the three academic linguists at Brazeneck who occasionally bother to debate such things over a beer, is Trollfish, a.k.a. Droll, developed at Koom Valley.  It consists of only two words, rendered in Ankh-Morporkian as ‘gold’ and ‘[hit-conversational-partner-very-hard-on-the-head-with-a-rock].’  Like any pidgin, it developed to achieve its goals (starting a fight) with maximal efficiency, and thus lacks the flexibility of a true creel, which can be adapted to many purposes beyond the mere carrying of fish.” – Prof. Hobbles Binge, <em>Languages of the Disc</em>.  Ankh-Morpork: Unseen University Press, Year of the Condescending Carp.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref5" id="_ftn5" name="_ftn5">[5]</a> A blossom or bloom.  Also, a word that rhymes with ‘truth,’ because the kind of story that starts off in purple shorts and a plaid shirt seldom makes the subtle choice.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>At the moment I have no plans for Lord Downey to take an onscreen role, but wherever he is and whatever he is doing, he looks exactly like RDJ-as-Stark, goatee and all.  For no plot-relevant reason other than my personal amusement (which, let's face it, is entirely driving this story, so who knows, maybe it will turn out to be relevant after all).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Day 5, part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>An evening at the Ankh-Morpork Opera House.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Loki swept down the stairs into the lobby of the Ankh-Morpork Opera House, smiling faintly.  The crwth quintet could hardly be heard over the clink of glasses, the swish of fine clothing and the murmur of genteel conversation.  The city’s finest were providing their own distraction, but where was the fun in that?</p><p>Her eye was caught by a man in a sparkling gold suit and top-hat.  He was surrounded by laughing people hanging on his every word, except for the tall woman in stiletto heels next to him, who looked unimpressed and yet still grudgingly, slightly fond.  The woman glanced up at Loki, looked her up and down, and raised a cool eyebrow.</p><p>All right, then.  Might as well head that direction.  The man clearly needed someone else controlling his fashion choices.</p><p>Loki let her cane lengthen back to its walking-stick form.  She flipped it in her hand, enjoying its finely balanced heft, then swung it at the first person she passed, slipping nimbly past him as he began dancing to make a beeline for her next target.  She hummed along with the music, tapping targets to its rhythm.  How many puppets would be enough to amuse her?</p><p>She’d managed twenty before people she couldn’t reach quickly enough noticed.  Ah, the screaming and stampeding, always her favorite bit –</p><p>– this was <em>too</em> familiar –</p><p>* * *</p><p>Unseen University was quiet.  The wizards were all either at third-supper or mingling with the nobs at the Opera House shindig.  The students were nowhere to be seen, in case anyone asked why they hadn’t gone to lecture.</p><p>Oliver Higgins wasn’t paid to think, or to ask questions like, “Why would wizards need normal guards on the Tower of Art?”  He regarded himself with pride as an amateur, off-hours thinker rather than a professional.  Therefore, when he heard the grunt from his fellow guard and glanced over the parapet to see Bob laid out flat with a pie to the face, he did not immediately duck for cover, run, or shout for help.  Nor did he have any sudden insight into his role as an overlarge, cheap-suited canary whose damage would warn of an attack without wasting a wizard’s more valuable time or skin.  He merely stood conveniently still, staring in shock, for the moment it took the second pie to arrive.  Then, like Bob, he fell.</p><p>In the shadows, Mr. Bent did not smile.  On the surface of his mind, the mathematics of length of a helix coiled at angle <em>θ</em> around a cylinder of radius <em>r</em> to tower height <em>h</em>, traversed at in-line velocity <em>v</em>, translated to time <em>t</em> to achieve the top of the tower.  Somewhere deeper, a clown was rehearsing everything he knew about escape artistry and maximally effective comedic timing thereof.</p><p>He hefted the backpack of remaining pies, glanced nonchalantly upward at the enormous height of the Tower, and pulled from his coat pocket a very tiny ladder.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Loki spun into a secluded spot behind a massive pillar while her charmed minions danced mechanically and the rest of the crowd fled.  Every time in the past few days that her brain had tried to grab her attention now echoed and clamored.</p><p>But it couldn’t be!  It couldn’t be!  There was no SHIELD here, no Avengers, no more than some old confused echo of Odin and Thor.  Who could – who would <em>dare</em> – try to prank her like this!  Her!  Goddess of mischief, lies, trickery – if this was Thor’s doing, she’d – but how in Frigga’s holy name could that lunk-headed muscle-bound – <em>Odin’s true son</em>, whispered a tiny corner of her mind, which she crushed as harshly as the wisp of longing for the games they’d played in the childhood stupid oblivious Thor, half-blind as their fa – as his father, remembered so fondly –</p><p>Her hand tightened on the staff and her eyes narrowed.  Very well.  Tracing the author of this offense could wait.  If this truly was some sort of reenactment, why then she knew the script.  And isn’t it said, history is won by its writers?  If there were any sort of Captain Ankh-Morpork here, he ought to show up shortly.</p><p>Loki tilted her head, then smiled and strode for the door, letting her clothes fade to armor and her helmet shimmer into existence.  One could hardly appear onstage improperly costumed.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Tears of the Mushroom took her tiny hand off Moist’s mouth and jumped from his shoulder back to the floor.  He’d looked far too likely to scream when she yanked him behind the alcove curtains.  Adora Belle, of course, looked closer to murderous than terrified, though the glance she gave Tears of the Mushroom was impressed.</p><p>“I was <em>joking</em> about contingency plans if the stick-wielder showed up tonight,” she said.</p><p>“I wasn’t,” Tears of the Mushroom replied.  “A gathering of nobs, with music?  We may as well have put ‘dance whether you like it or not’ on the posters.”  She glared through the curtains towards the shuffling, turning, shaking, stomping dancers.  “Ruin <em>my</em> premiere, will you …”</p><p>Moist had gotten himself back together, and quietly opened the door backstage.  “Everything in the hall?”</p><p>Tears of the Mushroom nodded.  “We brought the pieces in our instrument cases.  No one noticed.”  She jerked her head meaningfully at the other members of UnCrwth.  “Grab the chairs and let’s go.  We’ve music to perform.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>“Commander!  The Opera House!” Constable Visit, on map-watching duty, and Sergeant Littlebottom, glancing out the open door of the Pseudopolis Yard Watch House, called out nearly in unison.</p><p>Vimes took one look and nodded.  “Captains.  You’re up.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Mr. Bent had reached the top unnoticed save by the gargoyles, who had reckoned a pigeon pie apiece a sufficient bribe.  There were no guards.  He had two minutes until Old Tom began to toll the hour’s silences.</p><p>The bell loomed, huge and dark even against the night sky: far more than enough octiron to create the focusing rings for the portal.  Of course, if it were as easy as scraping a bit off with a pocketknife, any Fool could do it.</p><p>Mr. Bent withdrew two strips of rubber from his pocket, carefully replacing the tiny ladder, and got to work.</p><p>* * *</p><p>A portly Watchman who’d been leaning against the outside of the building as though making sure it wouldn’t be stolen straightened up in guilty surprise and fear as Loki stalked past.  She smacked him in the chest with the stick without glancing at him or breaking her stride, amused as he obediently began a dancing shuffle.</p><p>Now, how had it gone?  Ah, yes: police cars.  Her stick couldn’t blast from a distance like his scepter had, but on the other hand, what did this place have, police wagons?</p><p>Yes, yes: the crowd was fleeing across the square, except the ones ogling the spectacle.  Ah, this part was fun: “KNEEL,” she bellowed.  Pulling this bit off would be an even grander trick than the first time with the limits of the stick.</p><p>As before, they ignored her.  It rankled again, but after all, she knew the next step.  She drew on the fear of the stick-charmed dancers behind her and made copies of herself appear all about the edges of the plaza before the Opera House.  “I said KNEEL,” she bellowed again, and as if they’d all read the script too, they knelt.</p><p>Her grin grew a touch manic.  Next: pompous bluster until some pathetic mortal provided an example for her to make, then see who showed up to save the day.  Once Captain Ankh-Morpork and, who would it be, Octiron Man? arrived, <em>then</em> it might be time to take the script in a new direction.</p><p>She blathered, hardly listening to herself as she watched for – she nearly spit – <em>heroes</em>.  Her truly excellent imitation of a two-bit villain’s monologue was briefly but repeatedly interrupted by Old Tom tolling silences.  Bent had better be doing his part.</p><p>* * *</p><p>“What are you going to do, swoop around and glitter at her?”  Adora Belle hissed as she tightened bolts and straps with her usual quick competence.</p><p>“Dick’s fiddled with the nozzle aperture controls – I should be able to produce a narrow blast of steam if I can get close enough.”</p><p>“Should.  If.  And then it will promptly blast you back to not-close-enough.”</p><p>“Have you a better idea?  You didn’t hear everything Hubert and Igor told me before they were taken.  We <em>must</em> get that power source back.”</p><p>She tapped the last gauge, then nodded to herself.  “Yes, I have.  Go swoop and glitter, and don’t steam any Watchmen when they show up.  You’ll see when it’s time to land.”</p><p>Moist could have said <em>No, stay here, I can’t risk you</em>, but he had a finely honed ability to distinguish between acceptably exciting amounts of risk and suicidal stupidity.  He smiled.  He nodded.  He kissed her.  He went to fight an unknown magic-user in a recently modified flying suit that might steam him or splatter him on the cobbles, relieved to have spotted and avoided the danger.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Eleven strikes of the balloon hammer against the balloon chisel had filled the backpack; he saved the last silence for popping the balloons.  Perfect.  All the octiron Mistress could want, and no unexpected silences.  Mr. Bent hoisted the backpack, now much heavier, placed a tiny beanie on his head, flicked its spinner to set it whirling, and leapt off the tower’s edge.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Ah, here we go: a high-society matron of a certain age, corsets creaking, shook off the hands that had pulled her to her knees and slowly, majestically stood up.  Gods above, below and inside, why did mortals have to be so predictable?  She could hardly be following the script better if she had a sibyl hissing in her ear about good omens for Dramatic Last Stands.  The pathetic little dragon with her dribbled something pungent on her dress – from the looks of it, not for the first time.</p><p>Yes, yes: portentous statement of resistance, fine.  Loki replied with the appropriate hauteur.  Almost time – a tall, well-muscled man in Watch armor burst out of the main Watch station opposite the Opera House – Loki lowered the stick as though to ram Lady Expendable – the man was sprinting across the square: really?  No more barely-flying marble benches, were they even <em>trying</em>?  Loki certainly wasn’t going to wade through the crowd to stick-charm Her Nibs – let them all wonder what she could do without touching them.  She slowed her movements to give the ridiculous excuse for a hero time to reach his mark in the tableau.</p><p>Captain Ankh-Morpork stopped further away than she had expected and drew his arm back.  Something flew straight and fast, whacking into her wrist hard enough to make her drop the stick, then curved through the air to return to his grasp.  She caught only a glimpse of the flying … baguette?  It would almost be funny, if it weren’t so insulting.</p><p>“Captain,” she greeted him mockingly, shaking out her wrist and picking up the stick.  This one had been pointed out to her, and oh yes, she could see how it worked: big, strong, handsome, dumb, stick up posterior.  “The man out of the mine.”  He was getting ready for his first heroic quip, and then of course he’d try to fight her.  Hmm.  Was he as chivalrous as his more-excitingly-dressed original?</p><p>He strode towards her.  “This city, madam, is mine.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes.  Not even a <em>good</em> quip, how dull.  She adjusted her body size to something smaller and more delicate, deflecting attention from the change with “If that’s Ankh-Morpork’s ass in those trousers, I <em>will</em> introduce spandex once I rule.  What a waste of a waist.”</p><p>The Captain put up his fists in a ridiculously formal, exaggerated pose and said calmly, “Ankh-Morpork’s ass has never once worn trousers, and is currently happily stuffed full of hay, thank you for inquiring.”</p><p>What –</p><p>“Lady Ramkin prefers we refer to her as the Watch’s donkey, however.”</p><p>No.  Focus.  She glared at him, suspecting that behind the bland face he was laughing at her.  All right, distraction round to him.  He hadn’t even fallen for the don’t-hit-the-tiny-woman gambit, or at least he was putting up a good bluff.</p><p>Did she want to be captured this time?  Last time it had been useful and fun, but he’d had his scepter.  The stick was barely a replacement.  Hmm.  Well, it would keep attention off her minions.   She’d at least fight harder.  The loaf of bread was just one mocking detail too far.</p><p>She left an illusion of herself standing there glaring, cloaked herself from sight and swept the Captain’s legs out from under him with a hard blow of the stick to the backs of his knees.  He looked satisfyingly surprised when he went down.  She put the stick an inch from his chest, enjoying the tease, and leaned over, smiling.  “Did you really propose to engage in the noble art of fisticuffs with a <em>god</em>?”</p><p>Behind her, a small voice counted quietly “And a-one, two, three –”  She spun around, raising the stick, but it was only the crwth players, who launched into the closest thing a crwth quintet could produce to rousing fight music.</p><p>She relaxed and returned her attention to the good Captain, who rather than trying a leg sweep during her moment of distraction was merely standing up.  Idiot.  She tripped him again.  She was getting the hang of this: the music would herald the appearance of Octiron Man or whatever he’d be calling himself – and, yes, there he –</p><p>She burst out laughing.  It was the man in the golden suit, his top-hat tied on with sparkling gold ribbons under his chin, flying via steam jets that looked impossibly heavy and inefficient.</p><p>“Swoop!” he yelled, spinning in the air.  “Glitter!”  He clearly had ambitions with those palm-mounted steam jets, but he flew as though trying to run across marbles.  A sauna would be hotter and steamier than – speaking of which, perhaps she <em>should</em> charm the Captain, hmm –</p><p>Arms slid around her and a woman’s cool voice murmured in her ear, “Is using your stick really the only way you know to get a girl?”</p><p>Loki blinked.  This – this was not in the script.  She turned her head enough to discover that the unimpressed woman’s eyebrow was even more sardonic from this close.  Interesting.  “You’d be amazed what I can do with my –”</p><p>The unimpressed woman put a finger to Loki’s lips.  “<em>Don’t</em> finish that sentence.”  She slid her foot up Loki’s leg a little way, and this was <em>really</em> not in the script, but for an eyebrow like that Loki might just – “I thought, if you’re done playing with your boy-toys here, we might –”</p><p>Getting captured by Glitter-Boy and Captain Baguette could wait.  “Just a moment, I’m bringing this one,” Loki said, and turned to bring the stick to bear, at which point three things happened in quick succession:</p><p>The unimpressed woman tightened her arms around Loki and stomped downwards;</p><p>Captain Not-So-Morally-Upright-After-All grabbed both of Loki’s ankles and yanked;</p><p>And a heavy, furry, wolf-scented weight landed on her, teeth closing over her jugular with just enough force to suggest how easy it would be to apply more.  A low growl of “<em>Hmine</em>” echoed in her skull.</p><p>New cobble-shaped bruises ached in her back.  Her shin was scraped.  Her foot felt as though someone had just pile-driven a stiletto heel into it, which: fair.  And she’d dropped the stick again.</p><p>This probably counted as fighting harder.  Loki smiled, and relaxed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Day 5, part III</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Mr. Bent is set to rights; Loki is offered a blanket; the minions are cognitively recalibrated; and Susan calls upon an old friend.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks as always to Faileas for the beta.  He's also continuing to plug away at the art as time permits; we're up to halfway through Chapter 5 with spiffy little sketches of this and that.</p><p>Longer-than-usual delay posting this chapter while I wrestled with where we're going and how we're getting there now that Loki thinks she knows what's up.  I thiiiiiiink I have it more or less figured out.  We'll see how well the characters cooperate.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mr. Bent stilled the propeller, folded the beanie, and replaced it meticulously in his pocket.  He resettled the heavy backpack and, lifting each foot high, strode into the alley –</p><p>A momentary susurration ended with a faint slap on the cobbles, just as his foot came down.  The noise that followed was of the sort Mr. Bent preferred never to acknowledge.  Startled, he stepped back, accompanied by another <em>fffff-slap-PPPPPBBBFFFTTT</em> as a second perfectly-slung whoopie cushion slid under his heel.</p><p>His eyes narrowed slightly.  Despite the noises, he stood still.</p><p>A voice he had never expected to engage in personal conversation again said, “This afternoon, two pineapple-meringue and eight pigeon pies were purchased from Calkin’s Hot Things To Put In Your Face.  There are two human guards and eight gargoyles around the Tower of Art: a curious coincidence.”</p><p>Mr. Bent said nothing.</p><p>“I have forgotten neither your prowess with pineapple-meringue pies nor your accounting skill.  You are certainly aware how quickly anomalies catch the attention of one alert for them.”</p><p>Mr. Bent said nothing.</p><p>“One wonders whether your choice of pineapple was intended to present me with such an anomaly.  Perhaps Loki’s control of you is less complete than she believes.”</p><p>Mr. Bent’s sudden movement was as suddenly arrested as something touched his neck.  The PPPPBBBBBBTTTT accompanying his shift in weight stopped with a particularly organic squeak.</p><p>The voice was now directly behind him.  “I suspect you have never attacked someone with a balloon knife,” it said.  “Nor have I.  I doubt its efficacy, but a wise leader communicates in the vernacular most likely to reach his audience.  If you move again, we shall both have a learning experience.”</p><p>Mr. Bent did not move.</p><p>“Mr. Bent,” said the voice softly, “what is the square root of 884.32?”</p><p>Mr. Bent’s lips moved.  His fists clenched.  He said nothing.</p><p>“I see,” said the voice.  “Loki’s hooks are more firmly set.  Very well.  Mr. Bent: the town barber, who is a man, shaves exactly every man in the town who does not shave himself.  Does the town barber shave himself, or not?”</p><p>Mr. Bent’s harsh breathing echoed in the narrow alley.  His arms, held stiffly at his sides, trembled with strain.</p><p>“Mr. Bent,” the voice murmured, “there are infinitely many numbers greater than zero, yet only so many phrases whose length is less than ten words.  Therefore any Fool can tell you there must be numbers which cannot be described in less than ten words.  Tell me the smallest of these.”</p><p>Mr. Bent jerked away, gasping.  A final PPPBBBBBppppbbbbb wheezed from beneath his feet.  He turned on his accoster, who held the balloon knife as though he knew how to use it.  Mr. Bent glared.  “Any such number, you will claim, could be described as ‘a number indescribable in less than ten words’ – which itself has less than ten words.”</p><p>Lord Vetinari smiled.</p><p>* * *</p><p>“Should have taken you when I had the chance,” Loki murmured to the enormous wolf, as Captain Ankh-Morpork hauled her to her feet.</p><p>“I must ask you not to threaten an officer of the Watch,” the captain said politely.  The wolf’s bared teeth sent the same message, minus the tact.  The Captain held Loki’s stick firmly in his other hand, but made no move to use it.</p><p>Loki smiled.  “If I do?”</p><p>“I shall ask her not to rip your throat out.”  The wolf gave him a disgusted look.  “If you set the precedent of not listening when I ask things, I suppose that’s your choice.”</p><p>Loki smirked as she was assisted, limping, into the Watch station.  An orange-furred primate sitting atop a table smiled at her, or at least showed a lot of teeth.</p><p>They escorted her to a cell.  “Do not try to break out,” said the large rocky creature standing guard.  “Built to hold trolls on Slab, Slice, whatever kids putting in dere heads dese days.  Even held de Librarian last time someone called him –”  The guard glanced at the table and fell abruptly silent.</p><p>Lightning flashed outside.  Loki paled.</p><p>“Afraid?” said Captain Ankh-Morpork, having the gall to sound genuinely sympathetic.  “You can throw the bogeyman blanket over your head if you like.  Quite soft and fuzzy.”</p><p>Loki throttled her contempt and fear into a terse, “I’m not overly fond of what follows.”  She frowned and shook her head sharply.  She was <em>changing</em> the script, dammit, and Thor <em>wasn’t here</em>.</p><p>Thunder crashed.  She flinched.  The thunder kept going, resolving itself into hoofbeats on the cobblestones of the square.</p><p>An enormous, pale horse stepped through the door into the main room of the Watch station.  Everyone else ignored it, as well as the woman who slid down from its back.  She briskly set it up with a feed bag, patted it with businesslike affection, and strode towards the duty officer’s desk, black cape flaring.  Her hair, which had been tightly wound, loosened itself to float about her head as though electrified: one black streak amidst white thunderheads.  She ran her hand through it impatiently.  The black streak seemed to writhe.</p><p>Lightning flashed again, followed instantly by deafening thunder.  The woman stopped dead, glaring upwards, and scythed her hand sharply through the air in exasperation.  Her lips shaped “Stop!”  There was a moment of deathly silence.</p><p>Loki swallowed.  A Thor-equivalent would be bad enough, but there were worse options.</p><p>The duty officer remained oblivious to the woman’s presence.  She tapped her fingers briefly on the desk, then spotted Loki and stalked towards her, scowling.</p><p>Despite her pounding heart, Loki remained sprawled indolently on the ledge in her cell.  The woman entered merely by ignoring the possibility that any bars might stop her.  Loki did not let herself flinch.  “Forgive me for not standing,” she drawled, “but my foot –”</p><p>The woman narrowed her eyes.  “You’re Grandfather’s latest reason to interfere in my life,” she snapped, “and I’m tired of mucking about on his business.  Why exactly are you a problem and what is your solution?”  She added absently, “Show your work,” then blinked and refocused her glare on Loki in a way that suggested Loki take either no note, or possibly a lot of them.</p><p>“I’m sorry,” Loki said with her most charming smile, “but before we pretend I care about your problems, does the name Thor mean anything to you?”</p><p>* * *</p><p>“The wizard may see that I am no longer bound, if he thinks to look,” said Mr. Bent.  “He most likely will not, if I am alone.  If you enter with me …”</p><p>Lord Vetinari nodded.  “Very well, Mr. Bent.  Here is what you must say to each of them –”</p><p>* * *</p><p>The woman’s stare reminded Loki of the time he and Thor had released a bilchsteim in Frigga’s rooms, then claimed it was a present for her to keep as a pet.  Loki had never known anyone else who could see straight through your bones into your soul.  Abruptly, she missed Fr- her mother.</p><p>“Vaguely Überwaldean,” the woman said, “and now pretend <em>very hard</em>.  Grandfather –”</p><p>Loki yawned ostentatiously.  “Who is your grandfather, that I should care?  Who are you?”</p><p>The woman smiled grimly and held out her hand as though to grasp something.  Loki ducked.  When no hammer smashed through the walls and bars, she looked back up.  The woman’s eyebrow was raised, and she was holding a scythe.  Its handle and blade were translucent, but the blade’s edge gleamed.</p><p>Yᴏᴜ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜᴏ ɪ ᴀᴍ.</p><p>She let the scythe go and it seemed to vanish, but the hairs on the back of Loki’s neck continued to prickle: the scythe was not gone, merely momentarily unmanifest.</p><p>Loki drew an unsteady breath.  “How about ‘Hela’?  Toll any bells?”</p><p>“Susan, actually.”  It wasn’t a no.</p><p>“And your grandfather …”</p><p>Dᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴘʟᴀʏ ᴅᴜᴍʙ.  “I don’t, as a matter of course, take the scythe when I act on his behalf.  But he thought this time I might need it.”</p><p>Sǫᴜᴇᴀᴋ sǫᴜᴇᴀᴋ sɴʜ sɴʜ.  A skeletal rat in a robe, with its own tiny scythe, skittered between the cell bars.  Susan, not looking around, stamped down heavily.  The rat dashed away.  Sɴʜ.  Sɴʜ.</p><p>“Did that … rat skeleton … just say ‘to establish your bone-a fides’ and then run away sniggering?”</p><p>“We don’t talk about the Death of Rats.”</p><p>As Susan seemed disinclined to murder her immediately, Loki dared to probe: “When you … arrived … there was lightning.”</p><p>Susan flushed faintly.  “The … person I was with before Grandfather interrupted likes to find lightning bolts for me when I go off to play <em>hero</em>.  He thinks he’s funny.”  “Hero” had the same intonation Loki’s mother had used to describe exactly what the bilchsteim had done under the bed.  “Why are you here?” she riposted.</p><p>Loki shrugged.  “Survival.  Chance.  Amusement.”  She smiled, malice with a lascivious edge.  “Desire.  Power.  Why are <em>you</em> here?  Perhaps you’re sworn to protect this world?” she needled, unable to stop prodding.</p><p>Susan’s lips tightened.  “Grandfather sent me because if <em>he</em> gets involved, so can the ones who think they fill his role in your world.  Hela.  Thanos.  If he develops any link to you or the power that brought you here, they can use it.”</p><p>Loki paled.</p><p>“Whoever they are, Grandfather says Tʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ɪᴛ ᴡʀᴏɴɢ.  He’s … professionally affronted.”</p><p>Loki almost laughed.  “How can a goddess of death ‘do it wrong’?”</p><p>“I got an earful about Iɴᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇ ʀᴇᴠᴇʟʀʏ ɪɴ ᴠɪᴄɪᴏᴜs ᴄʀᴜᴇʟᴛʏ and Sʜᴏᴅᴅʏ ᴍᴀss ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴡɪᴛʜ ɴᴏ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴇᴛᴀɪʟ.  Perhaps you’d like to explain those to the class.”</p><p>“When your goal is to exterminate half of all living things, you don’t have time for artisanal touches.”</p><p>Suddenly the scythe, solid and sharp, was pressed to Loki’s throat.  ‘Aʀᴛɪsᴀɴᴀʟ ᴛᴏᴜᴄʜᴇs’?  Tʜᴀᴛ ɪs ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴇ – ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʜᴇ ᴅᴏᴇs.  Wʜᴏ ʜᴇ ɪs.  Wʜʏ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ғʟᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪs Tʜᴀɴᴏs ɪɴsᴛᴇᴀᴅ ᴏғ sᴛᴀʏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ғɪɢʜᴛ?</p><p>“I didn’t exactly have a choice.  I didn’t intend to end up here.  But if I had stayed?  He’d have come after me.”  Loki’s eyes glittered.  “Going to kill me now?  Artisanally?”</p><p>Susan’s smile was as sharp as her blade.  “He trusted me with the scythe but didn’t give me your lifetimer.  Whatever I do to you with this will be my choice, not his function.”  She eased up the pressure slightly.</p><p>Loki smiled and pushed the scythe away with one finger, careful to touch only the flat of the blade.  “Are you sure you’re worthy to bear this?”</p><p>Susan let the scythe vanish again, looking appalled.  “It’s a tool and a symbol, not a gold star for good behavior.  When your enemies find you –”</p><p>“They won’t.”</p><p>“They will.  The power that brought you here will draw them eventually, even without Grandfather.”</p><p>“Then I will be all that stands between your world and annihilation.  You will kneel to me and be glad of it.”</p><p>Susan looked ready to scoff or argue, then stopped and cocked her head.  “And after?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Once you’ve won.  Once you’re king of the mountain – then what?”</p><p>“Then I’ll <em>rule</em>, you idiot.”  Why did she look so bloody amused?</p><p>Susan grinned.  “There’s someone you need to meet.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Sparks raced around the colander, jumped from turnip to rutabaga to wahoonie, and skittered across the intricate wire structures holding them all in alignment.  Beneath the colander, Igor’s eyes glowed.  “Now, Marthter!” he said, and Hubert closed a valve on the mini-Glooper.</p><p>A single blue gleam raced from the Tesseract, through the loops and coils of the mini-Glooper, to the vegetable antennae and over the colander.  Igor closed his eyes.</p><p>Igor opened his eyes.</p><p>Lord Vetinari smiled.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Loki swayed as she sat quickly upright.  For a moment her sense of the Tesseract’s power fluctuated – but that was perhaps explained by whatever Susan had done.  They now stood in front of a small cottage, pleasantly shaded, next to a peacefully babbling brook.  Red shank, snowdrop, marsh woundwort, creeping thistle, woody nightshade and Devil’s Bit Scabious grew in abundance; bees and butterflies traced paths from flower to flower with the discernment and deliberate pace of connoisseurs at a high-end chocolate tasting.  A small wooden plaque near the door read, “E. H. Dread, D.L. (ret.).”  The doormat proclaimed in dark gothic script, “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” and in slightly smaller letters, “and abandon all muddy boots directly inside the door, or face my wrath.”  Leaves rustled and a windchime sounded in the light breeze.</p><p>Loki turned quickly.  Her cell’s bars blocked any passage away down the road; beyond them, the duty officer sat behind his desk, chin on hand, scribbling intently on a document and taking no note of the large red kite that flew down to snatch a rabbit from under his stool.</p><p>Her sense of the Tesseract had stabilized, oddly bifurcated: as though she were both as near to it as she had been a moment before, and much farther away.  She tested it, skimming a trace of power to heal her foot, the most she could manage from any distance.</p><p>She turned back to Susan, frowning.  “Illusion?”</p><p>Susan shrugged, not losing her grin.  “We are here.”</p><p>“Which ‘here’?”</p><p>“Yes.  Shall we go in?”  Not waiting for an answer, she turned, scythe now held before her, and walked through the wall.  There was a squeak, a twang, and a hiss; a crossbow bolt shot out the wall.</p><p>Loki caught it reflexively, then looked at the wall thoughtfully: no hole.</p><p>Susan poked her head back out.  “Coming?  He won’t mind about you; he’s just got a bone to pick with Grandfather.”</p><p>Loki palmed the bolt and slid it smoothly up her sleeve.  “Wouldn’t miss it,” she lied, not bothering to try for sincerity, and stepped forward.  She brushed by Susan, the wall insubstantial as mist around them, and into the cottage.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Calkin is a nod to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/21928795">The Bones of the Hills</a> by Nomad (nomadicwriter), who has done wonderful portraits of/backstory for several Discworld characters.  I’m imagining Calkin grew up, came to the big city, and turned his palate and ability to tolerate heat into a career as a baker.  Pies for the squishies, hot rocks (possibly onna stick) for trolls.</p><p>Lord Vetinari uses <a href="https://rationalwiki.org/wiki/Mathematical_paradoxes">paradoxes from set theory</a> to help Mr. Bent cognitively recalibrate himself.</p><p>The wildflowers around Evil Harry’s cottage are among <a href="https://www.welshholidaycottages.com/welsh-wildlife/wild-flowers/">those that grow in Wales</a> since he is known to have resided in Pant-y-Girdl in between Dark Lord jobs.  Harry chose his flowers based on what sounded like something a Dark Lord might grow.  I had too much fun choosing murderflowers to worry about whether these would all be in flower at the same time in Roundworld.  Assume they’re fertilized with narrativium.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Day 5, part IV</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Igor commits forgery and Loki is a jammy bastard.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to Faileas and SpideyFics for beta’ing this chapter, particularly SpideyFics for Brit-picking.  Things she taught me: brands of tea available in the UK include Typhoo (“You only get an ‘ooh’ with Typhoo!”), Pukka and Teapigs.  Custard creams, ginger nuts, hob nobs, and jammy dodgers are all cookies/biscuits.  A jammy bastard is someone who has been lucky beyond all reason.  The more you know…</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“… so the octiron rings would focus the power of the cube, thusly, overloading the local reality/irreality boundary to allow superposition of the one upon the other; the primary difficulty, of course, lay in designing an adequate coordinate matrix and control system to choose the correct plane of irreality, though I have succeeded admirably if I do say so myself.  It would hardly do to create a conduit to the Dungeon Dimensions, after all.”  It gradually penetrated Hubert’s awareness that this was not the safe silence of people too overwhelmed by his brilliance to ask questions.  His eyes darted to his audience.</p><p>Lord Vetinari had cocked his head slightly: an owl deciding whether the prey was worth the leap.</p><p>Hubert quailed.</p><p>Lord Vetinari crossed his legs and lay his forearms calmly and precisely upon the chair’s armrests.  “You have incorporated principles from your design of the original Glooper, I see, including the infamous ‘as below, so above’?”</p><p>Hubert nodded, fully prepared to launch into further explanation, but was forestalled by Vetinari leaning slightly forward.</p><p>“When you achieved that original theoretical breakthrough, Dr. Turvy, I am told that you produced one of the finest examples of maniacal laughter this city has ever had the privilege to witness – and then, most wisely, ensured no one could use your work to destroy the city.”</p><p>Hubert nodded, blushing.</p><p>“You understand I cannot allow this latest blueprint to be constructed,” Lord Vetinari said, almost gently, “but I hope that the successful theorizing required to design it was equally satisfying for you.”</p><p>Hubert paused.  Conversation was easy, when it involved explaining his ideas or nodding when he was supposed to nod.  This bit was … harder.   “Had it been my idea,” he finally managed.  “My head felt … I didn’t laugh, this time.”</p><p>“Would you laugh, Dr. Turvy, if you deduced how to contain the cube so as to prevent the use of its powers?”</p><p>“Octiron,” said Ponder immediately.  “We keep the nastiest spell-books bound in it.”</p><p>“We’ll need far more,” Hubert began, but Lord Vetinari shook his head.</p><p>“Gentlemen, I do not propose to allow any further raiding of Old Tom.  The need is too urgent to delay.”</p><p>Ponder frowned.  “There’s an old wizards’ tale about a sourcerer imprisoning tiny magic creatures ‘from dawn to dawn in feather’s weight of holy octiron,’ I never understood –”</p><p>Hubert murmured, “Lightweight … holy … holey!  A fairy-day cage!” and turned to Igor.  “We’ll need –”</p><p>Igor was already at the forge.</p><p>* * *</p><p>“Do excuse the crossbow,” Evil Harry Dread, Dark Lord (retired), said politely to Susan, putting the teakettle on.  “You know how it is when you see a scythe coming through the wall.  How are the little ones?  I did so enjoy their essays.”  He puttered around among the teabags.  “Typhoon or Ducka?  Might have Teaslugs if you’re partial.”</p><p>“You only get an ‘oon’ with Typhoon,” Susan murmured absently.  “The rhubarb ginger, if you would.  And this is Loki. Grandfather’s latest problem.  Ambitions, and enemies.”</p><p>“Ah,” said Evil Harry, and to Loki, “It’s always nice to see the next generation with a bit of get-up-and-go.  Custard cream or ginger nut?”</p><p>“She’s more of a jammy dodger,” Susan said tartly.</p><p>“I’m not really a tea-party person at all,” Loki interjected.  “I had rather enough forced socialization in childhood; is there a purpose here?”</p><p>Evil Harry rapped Loki’s knuckles with a tea-spoon.  “I take it you’d like me to tell this young lady what I told your class?” he asked Susan.  At her nod, he continued, “What are you offering in payment?  I don’t expect a charmingly innocent essay out of this one, and I may be retired but I’m not so lost as to <em>volunteer</em>.”</p><p>Susan drew a small bag from beneath her cloak and loosened its string.  Candlelight caught red gleams within.</p><p>Harry’s eyes widened, then narrowed.  “Is that – are those –”</p><p>Susan nodded.  “The same.  He said it was ᴀᴘᴘʀᴏᴘʀɪᴀᴛᴇ.”</p><p>“Appropriate,” Harry growled.  “You tell him to put that back exactly where he found it.  <em>Appropriate</em>.”  His hands shook slightly as he poured their tea.  “Do you know I retired after they – disappeared?  Just couldn’t – what’s the point in gloating over your victory if the people you want to gloat to aren’t there anymore?”</p><p>He didn’t miss Loki’s sudden stillness.  Neither did Susan, who traded a glance with him and rose, saying, “My tea and I will step outside.”  The bag of rubies returned to the folds of her cloak.  “This is – as serious as the last time these were involved, Harry,” she said soberly, “but this time your enem- friends aren’t here to fix it.”</p><p>Harry snorted.  “Seeing as how they caused the last problem in the first place, it’s better all-round if I step in.”  As Susan stepped out the front wall, Evil Harry took a custard cream and nudged the plate towards Loki.  “So,” he said casually, “is this a ‘crush your enemies beneath your boots’ set-up or an ‘I’ll show them all’?”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Bent passed Igor octiron shards to heat while Hubert and Ponder conferred rapidly about design.  Vetinari slipped out, warning them not to close the cage until he returned.  He sent a brief message to Vimes via the nearest clacks, then made his way unseen to Mrs Cake’s.  He was nearing the door when a small voice said, “She told me I’d meet you out here and not come back inside.  She said to tell you if anything happens to me she’ll never play Thud against you again except with her precog turned off.”</p><p>“A dire threat indeed,” said Vetinari, “to lose such a fascinating opponent.  I have a job for you.”</p><p>“You urgently need new music?”</p><p>“No.  Your other job.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>“I was king once,” Loki said quietly to her tea, “and I will be king again.”</p><p>Harry raised his eyebrows and sat back, nibbling on his custard cream.  “A few of my old minions are still in the trade,” he remarked, “and they can always use work.  But I won’t set ’em up with someone who won’t treat ’em right, so I need to know your head’s on straight.”</p><p>Loki’s eyes flashed.  “Minions!  I already have – servants – and can obtain more any time I –”  Except not at the moment, could she.  Captain Ankh-Morpork had had a pretty firm grip on her stick.  She viciously amused herself wondering who he would try to use it on and what he would make them do.  The werewolf would bite him if he even – she sighed, and let it go.  He’d probably already broken it or hidden it.  “Do not dare to judge me, mortal.”</p><p>Harry blinked.  “’Mortal,’ hmm?  She always forgets to tell me the interesting bits.”  He sniffed reflectively and added, “She never turns up unless something’s off, anyway.  Says she likes me because I’m ‘definitely not a hero.’”  He popped the rest of the custard cream into his mouth and said indistinctly, “So, standard would-be Dark Lord history for you, then?  Childhood trauma you’re still holding grudges about, no one understands you or appreciates your unique talents, all the attention went to a sibling you wish you could be but never will, absent or withholding father figure, any attention seemed like good attention, at first the trouble you started was small but you had to resort to greater and greater –”</p><p>Loki found herself standing over the old man, tea dripping down the wall to puddle around the shards of her cup, broken-off armrest of her chair in hand.</p><p>He looked back at her steadily and sipped his tea with hands that did not shake.  “That’s <em>my</em> story, anyway.  I thought it ended in triumph when I led my army back to my father’s castle, destroyed the walls, salted the fields, and captured my brother when he came out to beg for mercy.  Then I found out my father’d retired to the south of Quirm five years before, my brother wanted nothing more than to be a hermit and was delighted with his new lodgings in the dungeon, and my newly conquered people had a long list of things their ruler needed to do, starting with rewriting the budget to account for vastly increased masonry and food-import needs.”  He set his tea down.  He selected a ginger nut.  He took a bite.</p><p>Loki’s nostrils flared and her mouth tightened, but she sat down.  She looked at the armrest, then set it on the floor.</p><p>“Mind you, things looked up.  I became a top-notch Dark Lord.  Found a craven minion – you only need one – hired a lot of stupid ones, kept my castle ridden with convenient shadows, left secret entrances unguarded, dropped important facts in front of my brother.  I was a professional, lass, I had standards, my enemies knew my work and there was no one they’d rather go up against.”</p><p>“<em>This</em> is the talk you gave small children?”</p><p>“‘Find your passion,’ I told ’em.  ‘Most of you won’t wind up anywhere near it, but you oughter at least know what it is so’s you can wave and sigh when it goes by.’”  He looked at Loki shrewdly.  “Now you, lass, you think you’d like to rule, but what you’d really like is to win and be seen doing it.  Ruling’s drudge work.”  He sat back and smiled.  “Crush your enemies.  Show them all.  But do it your way.  Hob nob or jammy dodger?”</p><p>* * *</p><p>“Stand here, in the shadows,” Lord Vetinari said.  “You’ll know when to step into the light.”  He turned to Loki’s former minions.  “Gentlemen, are we ready?  Once the cage is closed, you must leave immediately.”</p><p>Ponder and Hubert, faces shiny with sweat as they crouched near the forge intent on the final panel of octiron mesh settling slowly into place, nodded distractedly.  “Alignment excellent on this side,” Ponder muttered to Hubert.  Blue gleams from the narrow gap that remained played over his forehead.  He held his thaumometer in the blue light, then in the shadow below the gap.  “Decreasing as expected.”</p><p>Hubert squinted and tilted his head.  “Rotate one sixty-fourth of a titch widdershins,” he told Igor.</p><p>“One sixty-seventh!” Mr. Bent broke in sharply.</p><p>Hubert glanced at him, then nodded to Igor.  “One sixty-seventh … All right.  There.  Do it.”</p><p>The mesh settled the final distance.  Wires twined, locks snapped, and the last of the blue light was suddenly extinguished.  Ponder moved his thaumometer rapidly all about the cage.  “Nothing,” he said.  “We did it.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Loki’s head snapped up.  The jammy dodger fell unheeded to the table.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><a href="https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/weird-news/looking-right-twit-owl-turns-1861289">Owls can turn their heads completely upside down</a>, but I feel if Lord Vetinari were to do so the effect would be considerably more fearsome and unsettling than the owl pictured at that link, who just looks a bit silly.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Day 5, part V</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Loki lets it out, Hubert holds it in, and Lobsang holds it up.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks to SpideyFics for quick Brit-picking and Faileas for fine-tooth-beta'ing.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What is she doing?” Loki snarled.</p><p>“Presumably something well-intentioned and reasonably clever.”  Evil Harry shrugged.  “She despises heroes, but she’s a teacher; they’re honestly worse.”  He sipped his tea.</p><p>Loki growled and stalked after Susan through the front wa-</p><p>Loki swore mightily, pain blossoming in her face.</p><p>“Door,” said Harry mildly, gesturing to it with his teacup.</p><p><em>Cabbage</em>, thought Loki viciously, but if she’d truly been cut off from the Tesseract she had no power to waste.  Harry’s smirk would have to go unavenged, for now.</p><p>“Thwarted,” said Harry.  “We’ve all been there – lovely snarl, couldn’t have bettered it myself.  But pray don’t let it be by the architecture.”</p><p>Loki growled again and stalked out the door.</p><p>A faint outline of a person sparkled near Susan.  She turned, rapidly stuffing a crinkly bit of paper into her pocket.</p><p>“What have you done?” Loki hissed.</p><p>Susan raised an eyebrow.  “Nuvvng,” she said, then coughed, performed the oral gymnastics known to toffee-lovers everywhere, swallowed, and said clearly, “Nothing.  Why?”</p><p>Loki glared at her.  “I’ve been cut off.”</p><p>Susan looked her up and down.  “Whatever from, you’d know if I had done it.  There’d be much more blood, and you’d be screaming or dead.  <em>I’d</em> know if I had done it.  The scythe doesn’t have accidents.”</p><p>“Take me back,” Loki grated.  She had to move quickly if she was to have any chance –</p><p>“We never left,” Susan pointed out calmly, as the cottage and its surroundings faded.</p><p>Lightning flared overhead.  Thunder cracked immediately.</p><p>“Oh, do shut up,” said Susan, annoyed.  “You’ve nothing to be smug about, it was nougat.”</p><p>“Who are you talking to?” Loki asked, eyeing the cell bars, the Watch officers in the main room, the still-ignored horse, and the exit.  If she moved before the duty officer raised his head, she’d only need power to get through the bars; the rest could be done with speed and silence.</p><p>Blue-white light blossomed over everything, syrup-slow.  Darting a glance out the station window, Loki saw jagged snakes of lightning crawling sluggishly across the sky.  Nearly everyone in the Watch station appeared frozen.</p><p>The horse snorted into his feedbag.  Susan rolled her eyes.  The lightning slowed to a stop.</p><p>An amused voice said, “She’s talking to me.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Hubert let out an enormous sigh, leaning his head against the cage as though his spine had suddenly turned to rubber.</p><p>There was a brief silence.  Ponder, Bent, Igor and even Vetinari all looked at Hubert with varying degrees of expectancy.</p><p>Hubert pushed himself to his feet.  “Not yet,” he said.  “I’d feel a right tit if Loki showed up while I was having a laugh.  When we know it’s really over.”  He looked at Vetinari.  “Sir?  What should we do with it now?”</p><p>“I’ve made arrangements.  Go.”  They went.</p><p>Very shortly thereafter, Carrot entered, carrying a large wooden barrel smelling of long-expired oysters with faint undertones of mildew and cat.  “Worst I could find on short notice, sir.”  They wrestled the cage into it, padded with straw and rags whose provenance was best left unspecified.  “Sir, Loki let us capture her.  When I left, Susan Sto Helit was having tea with her in her cell.  Angua’s there, pretending not to notice.  I’ll get this and the stick to –”</p><p>“Indeed, Captain.  Do convey my regrets to Captain von Überwald, but not, I suggest, until you have bathed.  Several times.”</p><p>Carrot grunted, heaving the barrel onto his shoulder.  “She might even want her own peppermint bomb, this time.  Two-Nose Joe’s been experimenting with ginger and cayenne.  I’ll get her one of his assortments.”</p><p>After he left, a small voice said from the shadows, “<em>Captain Carrot</em> is going to <em>Two-Nose Joe</em> to buy <em>anti-werewolf scent bombs</em>?”</p><p>Vetinari smiled.  “The captain wields his innocence like a scalpel or a mace, according to his needs.  I am sure he will treasure every nuance of the interaction.”  He glanced from the forge to the now-abandoned miniature Glooper, and reached for the largest hammer.  “I assume the distractions of the Watch House would not keep you from your work?”</p><p>“I wrote Gravel and Schist’s first duet in <em>Ode to de Odor o’ de Eau o’ Der Ankh</em> backstage during orchestra tune-ups.”</p><p>The last shards of the mini-Glooper fell to the floor.  Vetinari set the hammer neatly back in its place.  “A similar environment.”  He set a chair in the precise center of the room, facing the door, brushed a shard of glass from its seat, and sat down.  “But it would be instructive to see Loki confirm for herself what we have done.  She will let neither tea nor her cell bars keep her.  We will not have long to wait.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Loki eyed the lightning-lit figure floating just off the ground beside Susan: a young man in a plain robe, holding a broom.  “Let me guess,” Loki said sourly.  “That is the Doomful Broom of Glorious Destiny, with which you sweep souls into endless night once Granddad finishes with them.”</p><p>Susan was fighting the battle not to grin which her grandfather had lost long ago.  “You should see the Dustpan of Ultimate Despair.”  She elbowed the figure.  “Stand on the floor like the rest of us, don’t be obnoxious.”</p><p>The young man obediently settled, protesting.  “It’s hard enough being <em>here</em> at all, now we’re quibbling over a few inches?  Next time they’ll <em>all</em> be nougat.  I have foreseen it.”  He turned to Loki.  “Lobsang.  Also, Time.  You’ve found some interesting trouble.”</p><p>“She found me,” Loki said, and Lobsang choked.  Susan pounded him on the back with rather more vigor than necessary.</p><p>“Noticed anything almost-familiar lately?” Lobsang asked.</p><p>“How do you mean?” Loki said warily.</p><p>Lobsang smiled.</p><p>“She came to me,” Loki shrugged, and Lobsang coughed.  Susan elbowed him with rather more force than needed.</p><p>“Has anything recently felt like it’s happened before?” Lobsang wondered.</p><p>“What are you talking about?” Loki ground out suspiciously.</p><p>Lobsang grinned.</p><p>“<em>She</em> showed up in <em>my</em> cell,” Loki replied, and Lobsang snorted.  Susan flicked his temple quite hard.</p><p>“Feel like you’re in a rut?” Lobsang inquired.</p><p>“Frost’s sake, YES,” Loki snapped.</p><p>Lobsang snickered.  “About time,” he said. “She was going to kick me if we had to go around again.”</p><p>“I might even, when this is all over, kick you anyway,” Susan remarked.</p><p>Lobsang looked into the middle distance momentarily.  “No,” he said, “but there are histories where you get a nougat up my nose.”</p><p>“Acceptable.”</p><p>Lobsang returned his gaze to Loki.  “People think moments exist one after another like beads on a chain.  They pay little attention to most moments and even less to the chain.  But the links are what turn noise to stories.  What do you know about patterns?”</p><p>Loki glanced through her cell bars.  The horse was giving them all obligatory side-eye, but no one else had moved.  Her path out still existed.  The lightning hung immobile across the sky.  “Don’t pair plaid with zigzags.”</p><p>“Patterns propagate or die.  Those that change themselves or the world to favor their propagation have a better chance.”</p><p>“Yes, yes, babies with grandparents and sharper teeth live to make more babies, fine.”  If she walked through <em>those</em> bars and leaned right <em>that</em> much, the big orange monkey and the werewolf wouldn’t see –</p><p>“Stop thinking like a mortal.  What was the first story you were told?”</p><p>Loki turned to glare at Mr. Know-It-All.  “That my f- that Odin loved me,” she spat.</p><p>“Parent-loves-child,” Lobsang said softly.  “<em>There</em> is a pattern that survives.  That changes the world to make sure it does, over and over, across worlds, across eons, across species.  That fights to live.”</p><p>Loki’s nostrils flared.  “Even if it lies?”</p><p>Lobsang’s eyes glittered, dark fields full of stars.  “I can see all your moments.  Another story has tried for years now to take you as its own.  It has almost claimed you again and again, and yet parent-loves-child lives on in you.”</p><p>“My <em>father</em> abandoned me,” Loki snarled.  “<em>Odin</em> looted me from the battlefield like boots from a corpse, pretended to raise me as his own, then let me fall.”</p><p>“Self-as-victim,” Susan said coolly, continuing undaunted when Loki glowered.  “It tries to claim me too, whenever Grandfather shows up with another task or the chocolate turns out to be nougat.  But I <em>chose</em> to take the scythe and come find you.”  Her mouth twisted in annoyance and amusement.  “You’d think I were sworn to protect this world.”</p><p>“You presumptuous little – you compare your pathetic problems to mine and preen about your righteousness – you <em>are</em> Thor.  Are you going to make yourself a hero about the nougat too?”</p><p>“Oh no,” Susan said, “that really is sinister forces beyond my control.”  Lobsang swept her a bow.  She kicked his ankle.  Loki fumed.</p><p>Lobsang shrugged.  “Self-as-victim, show-them-all, unwitting-patsy, seeking-family-approval, sibling-rivalry, domination-as-worthiness, anger-disguising-pain, reject-to-avoid-rejection: you have a powerful tangle of stories wrapped tightly around you.  Patterns that have repeated across millions of lives.  They’ve done so well in you they’re trying to do it again.”</p><p>Loki flexed her hands, which wanted to grow claws, but that would take power.  The crossbow bolt she’d slipped up her sleeve poked her wrist.  It would be so easy to sink it into Lobsang’s guts.  Except, damn him, he would see it coming and disappear or – “Unwitting patsy?” Loki said sharply.</p><p>Lobsang blinked.  “Ah.  Er.  You didn’t realize the scepter I see that large-chinned purple person giving you was affecting you?  The –”</p><p>“Affecting me <em>how</em>?”</p><p>Lobsang shrugged.  “The scepter strengthens the story of the one who controls it.  I take it you thought that was you.  But the stories using you served themselves, not you, by getting it into your hands.  They’re trying again here, though with a weaker vessel they’d have affected you less had you not already been through their cycle.”</p><p>“No one tricks <em>me</em>.  Thanos will <em>pay</em>.”  Her fingernails dug into her palms.</p><p>Lobsang murmured, “The stories around you will fight very, very hard if you try to break free.  That’s why we’re speaking outside the stream of moments they can notice.  Their only way in here is through you.”</p><p>Loki narrowed her eyes.  “Why are you telling me all this?”</p><p>“I was sacrificed to a story.  My parents didn’t know what to do with babies.  The midwife could’ve said ‘Step up and figure it out, nurse one end and clean the other, be kind, learn to say no, you’ll sleep again someday.’  Instead she had them abandon me to be raised by others because it was more ‘myffic.’  I didn’t get to be part of parent-loves-child until I was nearly an adult.”</p><p>“So now you hate stories?”</p><p>“Hardly.  I am Time; I exist to create stories from noise.  The myth ‘Loki exists’ can only be told with careful curation of all your atoms’ moments.”  Lobsang’s mouth quirked.  “Tiny stories about atoms’ locations and movements are almost all I do.  They’re terribly long and dull.  Huge stories about empires rising and falling, villains being put down, heroes triumphing – uncommon, somewhat more interesting, but unsatisfyingly flat.  But the worlds conscious beings create in their minds?  You’re where the tiny and huge stories meet.  Rarer than meteors, more complicated and beautiful and satisfying than waves curling over and crashing into themselves.  Those patterns are the reason I do my work.”</p><p>Loki crossed her arms and gave Lobsang a flat stare.  “Am I an interesting enough pattern for you?”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The stories are wound so tight around you they’re flattening you.  ‘Daddy rejected me, so I’ll smash my more-favored brother’s toy’?  You can do so much more interesting things with your atoms.”</p><p>Loki’s head came up, her spine stiffening.  “I’m using the story, this time.  You may be right about Thanos controlling me through the scepter.  I’m much too clever to have been defeated otherwise.  But this time?  They can fight all the illusions they like.  Now let me go.  I will not allow the Tesseract to escape me again.”</p><p>Lobsang spread his hands.  “Certainly.  The story may even help you along for a bit.  But only until it’s time for the heroes to triumph.”</p><p>Loki scoffed, quashing her misgivings, and turned to the cell bars.</p><p>Susan raised a hand to Lobsang, asking him for a moment, then looked at Loki with such unexpected compassion that Loki flinched.  “Grandfather isn’t really my grandfather, you know.  He lacks … bits.  He adopted my mother.  You have to look hard to see parent-loves-child.  It has trouble when there’s nothing to move but bone.  But in you?  Even raging, every time you speak of them you first call them father, brother.”</p><p>Loki glared and said nothing.</p><p>Susan sighed.  “This ‘Tesseract’ you’re after: that’s the power that brought you here?  That’s what you felt suddenly cut off from?”</p><p>Loki continued to glare and say nothing.</p><p>Susan rolled her eyes impatiently.  “<em>That’s</em> the real threat to our world.  You, frankly, have barely enough power without it to get through these cell bars.  So it’s time for a group project.  You’ll tell me where you –”</p><p>Loki snorted.  “I’ll tell you nothing.”</p><p>Susan smiled.  “Then you can burn your very limited power to get out of this cell, and I’ll follow you.”</p><p>“Do you think so?”</p><p>Susan’s smile acquired the sharpness of her scythe.  Dᴏ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ ʜɪᴅᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ <em>ᴍᴇ</em>?</p><p>Loki clenched her fist.  “Fine.  Get me out of here and I will <em>show</em> you.”</p><p>Susan nodded serenely.  “Don’t expect me to help you take over the world.”</p><p>Loki showed her teeth.  “Don’t expect me to do group work.”</p><p>“We understand each other.”  She looked severely at Lobsang.  “Mint, chocolate truffle, or caramel <em>only</em>.”  She took Loki’s arm and walked them out of the cell, across the room past unmoving Watch officers to the horse.  “Mount up and don’t try anything clever.  Binky’s liked me since I brought him strawberries when I could barely toddle.”</p><p>Loki forebore to comment.  The horse flicked an ear meaningfully at her.</p><p>They rode carefully out the door under the sky still streaked with blazing motionless white.  Susan glanced up and stifled a sigh.  “You let it go or I will,” she said, not raising her voice.  There was no longer any sign of Lobsang, but suddenly the lightning flickered and flared all around.  A deep wolfish bark sounded from the Watch House behind them.</p><p>“That’s our cue,” said Susan, and Binky bore them up into a sky full of thunder.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>“I might even, when this is all over, kick you anyway,” Susan remarked.</em>: I don’t have a Peggy in this universe, and Loki wouldn’t have caught on to this echo anyway, but they’re both young women who get things done; I couldn’t resist.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Day 5, part VI</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which vocational skills are repurposed and a metaphorical reptile is surprised.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I added a new initial section to Chapter 1 on 2020-08-20.  It will be relevant for this chapter.  Thanks to Faileas for helping me figure out where it went, once it became obvious it didn’t go here.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Humans don’t know, because no goblin has told them, that unggue is more than bodily secretions in pretty jars.  Anything you extrude from your inner self into the outer world is unggue, whether it comes as easily and powerfully unstoppable as a sneeze, as painfully forced out as a bowel movement after a meal at Harga’s House of Ribs, or as patiently coaxed out past endless frustration as nursing a baby who can’t figure out latching.</p><p>Your children are your most powerful unggue; you scrape whatever leavings you can from the world for them, knowing that their beauty puts any unggue pot you’ll ever make to shame, knowing that they’re one accident or cruelty away from dropping to the cave floor and shattering back into dust.  You keep scraping anyway.</p><p>The second-greatest form of unggue in rarity, sacredness and power is art.  Save for unggue pots, goblins have never produced art that other races recognized; surviving at the edges leaves little time for building monuments.  Lullabies, scraps of poetry, a tiny cairn of perfectly balanced pebbles, a sinuous pattern of scratches in a cave wall, a rhythmically crumpled leaf, a chain shaken to a heart's beat: others hear crackles, see nothing.  Tears of the Mushroom is the first to extrude music that others can hear.<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a></p><p>* * *</p><p>She stood in the shadows beneath the table on which the mini-Glooper had rested, making slight conducting or crwth-playing or duck-honking gestures as she wrestled with the next movement of the Ode.  The performance space would need to be chilled if she expected Gravel and Schist to remember anything complicated, but what a sensation it would make to show the city what music trolls could produce in the depths of winter-locked mountains…  Vetinari would owe her a favor after this; perhaps he could persuade the wizards to arrange something.  Plan the premiere for next summer and advertise the need to wear fur coats to the Opera House, the nobs would eat it up…</p><p>She shivered.  The room had had only one door – <em>stand still, wait for death</em>, her mother’s and aunts’ voices crackled in her mind – but she had prevailed on Vetinari to wield the hammer again to crack a small hole in the wall behind her.  With luck and Vetinari’s skill to command Loki’s attention, she hoped to remain unseen, but no goblin trusted the Lady.  Vetinari had hesitated when she made her request, until she stared him down and said, “Don’t think human.  Goblins don’t get brave backed up against walls; goblins get dead.  Goblin courage is running fast and clever.  Goblin courage is disappearing and surviving and showing up again somewhere else.  Give me room to be brave.”</p><p>Now she could feel a faint draft across her back, coming through the new hole.  Perhaps the wizards could also create breezes in the Opera House?  Bearing the scent of the Ankh?  Or perhaps not: the troll performers would hardly notice, but the nobs would complain mightily.</p><p>“Begin as soon as Loki arrives,” Vetinari murmured.  “Don’t wait for her to act.”</p><p>As if she would have.  She’d been present at enough temples’ rituals by now to know the signs of impending deity.  She breathed out silently, ready, waiting for a god to show.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Binky did not need to be told where to go.  The alley in the Shades was far too narrow to accommodate a horse, merely a dark gap between buildings, but Binky slid into it like a yawn into the middle of a speech: unplanned, unwelcome, but undeniable.</p><p>Loki glared at the door, which should have been tightly closed, and slid down.  “Stay here,” she said.</p><p>Susan snorted.  “Not bloody likely.”  She dismounted, scratching Binky’s neck absently.  “No one will see me.”</p><p>The back of Loki’s neck prickled: Susan had positioned her hands for the scythe, though it remained unseen.  Loki hissed, “Don’t you –”</p><p>I'ᴍ ɴᴏᴛ ɢᴏɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ʏᴏᴜ.  Her eyes glittered blue.  Pʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ.</p><p>Loki twisted her mouth sourly, but pushed the door further open and slipped silently onto the stairs leading down.  She couldn’t feel the Tesseract at all, but by Heimdall’s eyes there would be some clue at least and she would find it.  Where were the others?  Bent should have been back with the octiron long before now, the forge should be ringing as Igor shaped the portal’s stabilizer rings, Hubert and Ponder should be arguing over something abstruse … Not this silence.  At the bottom of the stairs, Loki stopped outside the second door to strain her ears.  Behind her, Susan – ghostly quiet – halted.</p><p>One person breathing, relaxed, in the center of the room.  Loki weighed her options.  No Tesseract, no stick, no ready source of worship: by the rules of this benighted place, her power was gravely limited.  Then again, so was theirs.  She hardly feared a crossbow.  No more illusions yet, then.  Loki straightened and strode imperiously into the room.</p><p>A single man in late middle age sat calmly facing the door, elbows propped on the chair’s armrests, fingers steepled, dressed in practical dark gray with odd patches of black and light gray.  He tilted his head very slightly as Loki entered, but said nothing.  His eyes darted briefly behind Loki’s shoulder to Susan, who inhaled in surprise.  One eyebrow raised microscopically, but after a polite nod the man returned his attention to Loki.</p><p>“Who might you be, then?”  Loki kept her tone peremptory.</p><p>The man allowed his eyebrow to climb further with a slow deliberation that spoke volumes.  “Lady Margolotta didn’t tell you who rules here?  I am Havelock Vetinari, Patrician of Ankh-Morpork.”</p><p>Loki dismissed this with a cursory flick of her fingers.  “No: which one of them are you?” she said, more to herself.  “I’ve already met Captain Ankh-Morpork and the hawk and your ridiculous excuse for Iron Man.  You’re not Thor.  I don’t suppose you turn green?”</p><p>The fingertips tapped, gently, once.  “Not since the plumbing was replaced.”</p><p>Vetinari’s posture was confident, spare elegance over calm, coiled readiness.  He had no visible weapons.  Loki drew a breath and said flatly, “Of course.  You’re an assassin.  Got any red in your ledger?”</p><p>“You assume I keep a ledger.”</p><p>Loki threw back her head and laughed.  The Tesseract, gone.  The stick, likewise.  Heimdall unable to see her by her own command to the Tesseract.  The Natasha, the only one of these morons who might hope to outwit her, <em>in charge</em>.  Well, desperate times – didn’t the trickster-hero always pull success out of obvious failure?  Surely it was time for the story to be on her side.</p><p>Loki gathered her remaining power to craft an illusion of herself and cloak her body from sight.  It seemed harder than usual, but didn’t the hero always have to make a great effort at the dramatic moment?  The illusion could stand in her place and continue to argue with Mantasha.  Loki let the crossbow bolt slip into her hand and stepped forward.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Tears of the Mushroom had learned on the job.  A lazy or tired priestess might settle for generic religious fervor, but one who really believed, ha, in her work always had to make it personal.  With true faith (however temporary), a single priestess could give a god wings.  Tears of the Mushroom had never made <em>dis</em>belief personal before, but for this one?  No one had even heard the coda she’d spent months extruding and shaping.  For <em>this</em> one, she could manage the kind of personal disbelief that would act like acid on the foundations of the soul.  A god was merely a more fortified castle: mightier perhaps but in the end no more impervious than a hovel to persistent undermining.</p><p>She started as soon as Loki entered, with turning away her gaze, with ignoring anything Loki said, with silence.  She let a suffocating blanket of disbelief settle slowly, slowly over Loki – and by the furrow in Loki’s brow as she tried to call in her power, it was working.  Not enough: Loki managed to create an illusion, though not to hide herself.  Tears of the Mushroom stepped up her efforts, adding a contemptuous stare and an incredulous eyebrow.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Her illusion was – what in the Nine Realms, her illusion was <em>fading</em>!  And Mantasha was <em>looking at her</em>.  Not at the illusion, not looking around the room in confusion: looking at her.  Loki paled, then flushed, then drew on her last –</p><p>– almost her last –</p><p>– reserves of power, trying again to cloak herself.</p><p>* * *</p><p><em>Two</em> incredulous eyebrows.  An exasperated up-and-down flick of a glance.  An eyeroll.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Mantasha’s eyes flicked to the crossbow bolt in Loki’s hand, but the bastard didn’t even tense.  He just glanced back up and shook his head minutely.</p><p>Furious at the cavalier dismissal, Loki lunged forward.</p><p>Five very crowded seconds passed, in which Mantasha moved like a snake and Loki moved like a snake which can’t quite believe another snake has managed, despite the total lack of legs on either combatant, to trip it.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Lord Vetinari had Loki pinned, kneeling with her arm outstretched, still holding a crossbow bolt stuck through the back of the chair.  He seemed to be holding the tip of a long, narrow balloon to the back of Loki’s neck.  From the expression of absolute rage on Loki’s face, she was about to call in any last scraps of power she could reach.  Time for the final touch.</p><p>Tears of the Mushroom shrugged, twisted her mouth, shook her head slowly, and closed her eyes, wondering why she bothered.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Loki tried to wrench her arm out from the implacable grip.  Humiliation burned in her face, caught in her throat, flared into rage when nothing changed.  Some weapon, all the more disconcerting for its odd lack of sharpness, rested lightly on her spine.</p><p><em>Heimdall</em>, she thought, <strong><em>see me</em></strong><em>.  Tell my father I will even suffer his prison if he will but smite these mortals who dare – tell my brother I’ll endure his idea of wit –</em></p><p>Nothing happened.</p><p>She had only one more source of magic, one she’d clung to since her earliest memories: since her mother had smiled at her and said, “You are my child, as you are,” and her fa- dammit, since <em>Odin</em>, it was just as well Heimdall hadn’t heard how she’d phrased her frantic plea – since Odin had said, smiling a little less, “Of course, of course, but Thor and the others might tease you less if you – if you looked more like us.”</p><p>His mother’s eyes had flashed at Odin, but Loki hadn’t understood yet that he should be angry too.  He’d had eyes only for the way his father’s smile warmed as he made his first and deepest body-change: skin from blue to pale white, eyes losing their fire, features shifting from Jötunn to Asgardian.</p><p>She could release that magic into the world, but it was no greater a store than what the mortals had already managed to smother.  She glared at her hand: was it tinged faintly blue?  Had they a way to steal even power she hadn’t tried to use?</p><p>She was little better than a mortal while they held her so.</p><p>Susan – damn her to Thanos anyway, she could have helped if she wanted the Tesseract so badly – apparently had resigned herself to being seen.  She crouched where Loki could glower at her and said gently, “I think the story has turned against you.”</p><p>Loki’s nostrils flared.  Her hand <em>was</em> getting slowly bluer.</p><p>They weren’t going to take this from her.  If she was to end here – kept prisoner or killed – she would flaunt what they had truly caught in their faces.  They thought they knew her?  The story Lobsang was so enthralled with, the script she’d been using, thought it knew her?</p><p>They could choke on it.</p><p>Loki closed her eyes, reached under her skin, and unknotted her last magic.  She let it wash through her, erasing and restoring.</p><p>Susan said, “Oh.”</p><p>Vetinari shifted his grip slightly.</p><p>Loki opened their eyes.</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> She does not explain her compositions in these terms to those who exclaim over her; few non-goblins would honor the poetry of unggue.  To dwarfs, she says: Rarely, idly wandering the caverns of your own mind, you stumble across a vein of something rich and lovely that comes easily into your hands.  Once in several lifetimes, you might find a diamond.  Mostly, you mine through granite with your bare hands.  To trolls, she says:  Sometimes the rock fits your hand immediately; other times, you must squeeze.  Tears of the Mushroom has grown accustomed to suiting her expression to others’ palates, at least in her paid work.</p><p>To humans other than Lady Sybil and Mistress Beedle, she smiles and says nothing.<a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2"><sup>[2]</sup></a></p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2"><sup>[2]</sup></a> And Young Sam, but she doesn’t have to translate for him.  He still remembers the time his father took him to Harga’s House of Ribs, and how some of the Burnt Brown Crunchy Bits showed up in his poo, and what his mother said to his father after.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>“Waiting for a god to show”: I couldn’t get <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Waiting_for_Godot">Waiting for Godot</a> out of my head while writing this scene, but Tears of the Mushroom and Vetinari are a far cry from <a href="https://resources.saylor.org/wwwresources/archived/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Waiting-for-Godot.pdf">Vladimir and Estragon</a>, and after all, this time a god IS going to show up, which is counter to the whole point of the play.  So this phrase was how I placated my brain enough that it let me finish writing.  My brain now wants to write a Waiting for Godot AU with Nobby and Colon in the main roles and, I dunno, maybe Gaspode and Foul Ole Ron as Pozzo and Lucky respectively?  Brain y u do dis to me.</p><p>Vetinari being able to see Susan when she's standing in for Death is based on Nomad (nomadicwriter)'s excellent short fic <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097695">Certainties</a>, in which a young Havelock trains himself to see Death, and a comment thereon by raven_aorla imagining Vetinari getting Susan for once.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Day 6, part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <em>In which Captain Carrot is not dumb and does not wait; all that’s missing is the cow; the rewards of topiary devotion become clear; these boots were made for struttin’, but they weren’t made for you; a troll walks through a bar; Leonard gets a present; Susan does not walk through any bars; and an attempted analogy fails.</em>
</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks as always to Faileas for the beta and for continuing to work on the art as time permits!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Carrot counted his steps into the alley, turned one-quarter-widdershins, counted bricks in the wall he found himself facing, and set the barrel down carefully before the thirteenth.  With a grunt, he turned a rusted spigot in the wall two separate squealing half-turns, counted to three, then stamped firmly six inches out from the wall in front of the spigot.</p><p>A previously undistinguished patch of dirt sank silently down, enough that the entire barrel disappeared into the hole.  There was a creaking of machinery and an escalating hiss behind the wall, a great sudden whoosh from the hole, and the sounds of something large and heavy moving rapidly away under the ground.  The square of dirt ascended back to its original place, minus the barrel.  Carrot dusted his hands off, sniffed himself, grimaced, and went to find Two-Nose Joe.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Far beneath a particular room in the Palace, railway lines converged from tunnels of every size from rat to hippo.  A metal bar attached to one of the larger lines’ rails began to vibrate faintly, knocking a precariously-set weight onto a balance.  The other end of the balance rose, pulling on a string which disappeared into a hole in the wall.</p><p>In the particular room in the Palace, one of many strings tightened, pulling over a specific beaker, which tipped its unique volume of water into a narrow-necked bottle.  Driven by the new weight, the spring-loaded platform holding the bottle descended, uncovering the mouth of a small rubber bladder extended by the pressurized air it held.  The bladder, held in place with an assortment of twine, blew its air across the neck of the bottle.</p><p>The bottle sang a precise note.</p><p>Leonard of Quirm looked up from his current project<a href="#_ftn1" id="_ftnref1" name="_ftnref1"><sup>[1]</sup></a> and clapped his hands.  A new present from Havelock was always welcome.  He quickly set about revising his design for a Making-Tea-Without-Explosions Machine, and had just gotten the cow-catcher alignment satisfactorily calculated when Havelock arrived.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Tears of the Mushroom stood politely to offer her chair to the priest sent to relieve her.  The end of her three-hour shift was welcome: disbelief so directed and intense was exhausting.</p><p>Basalt, a devotee of Ikebana with fabulously intricate lichen, grinned at her and remained standing.  “Dat chair won’ appreciate me sittin’ on it,” he rumbled.  He glanced into the cell.  Loki was sitting cross-legged on the bed, back to them, staring intently at the wall.  “Dat de one?”</p><p>Tears of the Mushroom nodded, then, moved by an impulse to pity, said, “Don’t overdo it.  Just – just enough.”</p><p>Basalt looked momentarily curious, then settled himself solidly and stared at Loki, crossing his arms.  Trolls didn’t do complex, nuanced, or subtle, at least not at these temperatures, but troll priests were masters of rock-solid belief.  Tears of the Mushroom blew out a slow breath and let herself relax, shaking her head to clear it.</p><p>Within the cell, Loki shifted their weight and glanced over their shoulder at the two priests.  Their face gave nothing away in the brief moment before they turned back to the wall.</p><p>* * *</p><p>“No,” said Vetinari, “sadly, I do not currently have a cow anywhere about my person.  –Leonard, I am quite happy that you should design a cow, but not, perhaps, at this moment?  I would rather tell you about your birthday present.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>Nobby, sitting on a low pile of trash in the alley behind the Watch House, was trying to pull off his boot.  He pulled at it with both hands, panting, gave up in exhaustion, rested, and tried again, with similar results.  “Nothing to be done,” he grumbled.  “Shoulda known anything I borrowed from Glitterin’ Dave would be the wrong size.”</p><p>Colon joined him, walking with short, stiff strides and legs wide apart as he fought off the remnants of Loki’s control.  “I’m beginning to come around to that opinion,” he agreed.  “The high heels were too big, these’re too small – face it, Nobby, you weren’t meant to strut a mile in Glitterin’ Dave’s shoes.”</p><p>“Even Glitterin’ Dave doesn’t try to strut a mile in those heels,” Nobby pointed out.  He resumed his efforts, grunting.</p><p>Colon brooded, musing on Nobby’s struggle.  “So here we are again,” he said finally.</p><p>“Are we?”</p><p>Colon gestured expansively.  “Behind this wall, Nobby –” he smacked it, “behind <em>this</em> wall is a god.  And who does Mr. Vimes trust to guard the wall in case the god comes through it?  You and me, Nobby.  You and me.”  He stared at the wall, then said gloomily, “It’s too much for one man.”  After a pause, he said cheerfully, “On the other hand what's the good of losing heart now, that's what I say.  Remember that dragon?  We shot it right in the voonerables, didn’t we, Nobby?  Million-to-one chance, but it worked.”</p><p>“Ah, stop blathering and help me off with this bloody thing,” Nobby snapped.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Vimes stared at Loki’s back.</p><p>Loki stared at the wall.</p><p>“If a human woman with white hair with one black streak shows up,” Vimes said to Basalt, “you should know that she’s no better at walking through walls or bars than any of us.”</p><p>Basalt blinked, slowly.  “Some of us c’n walk through walls pretty good, ’specially the flimsy ones you humans build,” he said.  “An’ I only ever have trouble walking through bars after a Sulfur Slide, dose’ll knock you flat on de ass an’ no mistake.”</p><p>“<em>These</em> walls,” said Vimes shortly, gesturing.  “<em>These</em> bars.  She can’t walk through them.  Just remember that, if she appears.  Remember it very firmly.”</p><p>* * *</p><p>There was a promising rumbling behind the wall, growing closer.</p><p>“The challenge,” said Havelock, as the wall panel slid up and the scent of old oyster, mildew and cat arrived, “is to deduce everything that you can about the contents of this barrel, without in any way opening or altering the barrel itself or its contents; once you have done so, to design and implement ways to prevent anyone else from deducing the same; once you have done that, to determine how best to hide the barrel, with its contents, from any observation or access for an unspecified but extremely long period of time.”</p><p>Havelock really did bring the best presents.  Leonard barely noticed when Havelock, smiling slightly, let himself out.</p><p>* * *</p><p>This time, Susan let the duty officer see her.  She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d come.</p><p>
  <em>“Well, this is a change of pace,” said Vetinari.  “I trust your grandfather is well, Lady Sto Helit?”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Just Susan,” she said evenly.  “Grandfather sent me to find a power source that will attract enemies.  Loki had it here.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vetinari nodded.  “And now I have it – elsewhere.  Give my regards to your grandfather.”  He pulled Loki to their feet.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Susan’s eyes narrowed.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vetinari said, courteously but implacably, “Surely you don’t expect me to hand that much power to Death.  I’m rather surprised you’ve agreed to.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Susan lifted her chin.  “It needs to be <strong>gone</strong>.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Vetinari nodded.  “Quite.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“More gone than you can accomplish,” Susan insisted.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“You would be surprised what I can accomplish.  Nevertheless, I take your point.  If you are offering to help, I may accept, provided the item does not go to your grandfather.”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“He wouldn’t –”</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“Madam, I do not even trust myself to long retain it.  But let us defer the discussion: for now, I have someone to detain.”  He escorted Loki firmly to the door.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Loki barely glanced at her as they passed.  Susan blinked as a goblin woman stepped out from under the table to follow the others.  Loki seemed not to notice, impassive and withdrawn but tense.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Susan let them go.  It was only practical; Loki was no longer a problem, or at any rate not hers.</em>
</p><p>She’d let them go, without a word to Loki.  Three cups of tea at home afterwards, curled up in bed with an afghan and with the sugar lumps left over from Binky’s treat, hadn’t been enough to make that feel right.</p><p>The duty officer raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop her from walking towards Loki’s cell.  The troll standing outside the cell, however, left off staring at Loki when he saw her.  “Bin tol’ ’bout you,” he said gruffly, holding a hand up.  “You can’t walk through dese bars or dese walls.  Just dese ones right here,” he added helpfully.  Then he re-crossed his arms and resumed his former stare.</p><p>Susan stopped at the bars.  Loki didn’t turn.  Fine.  She smiled coolly at the troll.  “Are you sure?”</p><p>The troll looked at her, furrowed his brow, then winced.  “Dat is some mighty aagragaah I get when I try to be.”  He furrowed his brow again, then stopped and hit himself on the head much as a human might have massaged their temples.  “Like gahanka in my skull.”</p><p>Susan patted the troll’s arm, then turned back to the bars.  “Loki.”</p><p>Loki didn’t turn, but their shoulders stiffened slightly.</p><p>“I don’t think Vetinari can do it,” Susan said quietly.  “I believe he’s serious about hiding it, but I don’t think a human can, not from the kind of things that will come looking.”</p><p>Loki breathed out: a snort of contemptuous agreement, almost inaudible.</p><p>She waited, but Loki made no other sound or movement.  Eventually, she left.</p><p>* * *</p><p>Dragons aren’t terribly sensitive to mundane odors.  When you spend most of your existence with your nostrils crammed best-not-wonder-where against other dragons, and your brief moments of freedom breathing fire whenever you get the chance, olfactory sensitivity is not a survival trait.  But the scent of power?  You can’t make analogies with drops of blood in the ocean and sharks, or tracking falcons on cloudy days, because the dragons laugh too loudly before you’ve even finished the sentence.<sup><a href="#_ftn2" id="_ftnref2" name="_ftnref2">[2]</a>,<a href="#_ftn3" id="_ftnref3" name="_ftnref3">[3]</a></sup></p><p>Elsewhere, dragons snuffled after the tang of the Tesseract with the tenacity of an octopus refusing to relinquish its favorite toy and the subtlety of a bellows-tester in a flour-packaging plant.</p><p> </p><p><a href="#_ftnref1" id="_ftn1" name="_ftn1">[1]</a> A drawing of the trails created by a slime mold whose food sources had been arranged to mimic the placement of important locations in Ankh-Morpork.  In the margins he’d illustrated conveyances to carry people and cargo along these efficient paths, as well as the weapons he meant to mount on the conveyances, so that no thief or bandit would dare attack their innocent passengers, thus preserving peace.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref2" id="_ftn2" name="_ftn2">[2]</a> Anyone who thinks this is a joke has never tried to complete a sentence while dragons laugh at them.</p><p><a href="#_ftnref3" id="_ftn3" name="_ftn3">[3]</a> Of course, couple this skill with the legendary draconic arrogance and it becomes a vulnerability.  Deep in the Ethereal Planes lurk unnamed predators who have evolved protruding lures, composed of a bit of gold, a dash of combustibles, and an embarrassing fact about a powerful being.  Many individual dragons have learned of these predators, briefly.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><em>Aagragaah</em>: forebodings, “lit’rally der time when you see dem little pebbles an’ you jus’ know there’s gonna be a great big landslide on toppa you and it already too late to run,” per Detritus</p><p><em>Gahanka</em>: the trolls’ war beat</p><p>Elsinore_and_Inverness, I had no idea before posting the last chapter whether anyone else would be amused by <a href="https://resources.saylor.org/wwwresources/archived/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Waiting-for-Godot.pdf">Waiting for Godot</a> slipping in there, but since you spoke up, I went ahead and did it.  I did the thing!  Huzzah!  That part of the chapter is dedicated to you!  (Thank you to everyone who kudos and comments, engaged readers rock – it’s so fun to see your thoughts.)</p><p>Vetinari and Leonard feel like an old married couple, which I did not at all plan, but here we are?  They snuck up on me and charmed me, which I certainly expected from Leonard, but not from Vetinari.  It's just your classic "boy<sub>1</sub> schemes for years to rule city, boy<sub>1</sub> meets boy<sub>2</sub> whose brilliance is amazing and also a terrifying threat to world peace, boy<sub>1</sub> gets boy<sub>2</sub> to build himself the best secret hideaway ever so the world won't bother him" tale.  Only Vetinari could talk the princess into building her own tower and (mostly) staying immured in it...</p><p><em>“Well, this is a change of pace,” said Vetinari.</em>: Thanks again to Nomad (nomadicwriter) for <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1097695">Certainties</a> and raven_aorla for their discussion in comments about Vetinari seeing Susan on the duty.  This quote is exactly the reaction raven_aorla suggested, and Nomad pointed out they'd likely get along as they're both quite practical.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>